


Whumptober 2019

by MDJensen



Category: Hawaii Five-0 (2010)
Genre: #"don'tmove", #"staywithme", #Delirium, #Hallucinations, #Scars, #abandoned, #adrenaline, #asphyxiation, #beaten, #bleedingout, #draggedaway, #embrace, #explosion, #gunpoint, #humanshield, #humiliation, #isolation, #laceddrink, #muffledscream, #numb, #pinneddown, #ransom, #recovery, #secretinjury, #shackled, #shakyhands, #stabbed, #stitches, #tear-stained, #trembling, #unconcious, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, Whumptober, Whumptober 2019
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-14
Updated: 2020-06-11
Packaged: 2020-12-16 10:30:27
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 31
Words: 71,845
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21034799
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MDJensen/pseuds/MDJensen
Summary: I gave in! Will be a mixed bag in terms of who is getting whumped, so for your convenience, the chapter titles include the main whumpee :)





	1. Shaky Hands (Danny)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In the wake of Grace’s accident, no sleep, no food, and too much coffee leave Danny a shaking mess. Steve looks after him. Coda to 9x12.

The first time Danny stands and leaves the room abruptly, Steve assumes it’s a crying thing. Which would, of course, make sense. They’re only a few hours removed from the very real possibility of Grace dying, and emotion like that doesn’t just dissipate.  
  
But when the second and third time come in less than an hour, Steve sighs, starting to see a different picture. Danny’s come back with coffee. Carefully Steve plucks it from his fingers.

“Th’fuck’s y’r problem?” Danny growls— but doesn’t put up a fight over the hot, very spillable liquid, just lets Steve take it.

“My problem is your stomach’s upset, and this”— Steve waves the cup— “is gonna make it worse!”

“My stomach’s upset because my daughter just got in a car crash!”

“No, that’s why _you’re_ upset. Your stomach’s upset because you’ve put nothing but crappy black coffee in it for over a day now!”

“For your information,” Danny hisses, “I get the anxiety shits just as readily as I get the coffee shits, _Steven_.”

“Gotta assume it’s not helping, though. And not with the shakes you got goin’ on, either!”

“_I’m tired!_”

Grace’s proximity, Steve knows, is the only reason that Danny doesn’t actually yell. “Fine,” he whisper-shouts back. “Enjoy!”

Steve proffers the cup. But Danny just stares at it. “Well, now I don’t want it,” he grumps, looking down at his shaky hands.

Steve sighs, and takes a sip of the coffee for himself. It’s as bad as he expected. But he’s tired too—and anxious, and upset—so he takes another drink and tries to at least be grateful for the warmth. It’s chilly in the hospital room.

Maybe that’s why Danny’s shivering. The cold, the caffeine, and no sleep, and no food—they’re spoilt for choice, for things to blame, even without mentioning pure emotion.

Not that it really matters, in the end. Danny’s hidden his face in his hands now, and what Steve first noticed as a tremor in his fingers has become a full-body shudder. It doesn’t matter why. Steve just drags his chair closer, until the armrests bump together, and slings his arm around Danny’s shoulders. Danny comes without comment, burying his face in Steve’s chest.

For a moment, there’s silence. Then Steve takes another sip of coffee, and Danny gives a dull laugh as he hears the swallow. “Are you drinking my coffee?”

“Yes.”

“You’re a jerk. You just wanted some, and didn’t want to get it for yourself.”

“Caught me. I confess.”

Moving like he weighs a ton, Danny pulls away and lifts his head. “Hey,” Steve murmurs, setting the coffee on the floor with a little cardboard-on-tile click.

“Hey.”

“You feel like talkin’?”

Danny shakes his head, and goes back to staring at his hands for a while. Without the cup to hold, Steve’s own hands feel jittery and empty.

Finally Danny rubs his nose. Glances over at Steve, before looking back at his own lap.

“I didn’t wake up.”

“You mean, when Rachel knocked?”

Danny sighs, so slowly and miserably that Steve’s heart cracks all over again. “No. When it happened. I always thought— if anything bad happened to her. Really bad, really hurt, I mean— I thought I’d— feel it somehow. Y’know?”

Steve doesn’t answer, just listens.

“I think that was the one thing that kept me sane when Peterson had her. Thinking that, y’know, maybe she’s kidnapped, maybe she’s scared but— she’s not hurt. If she’s really hurt, I’ll know it. But apparently not. Apparently my daughter can literally be dying in a ditch, and I’ll just—I’ll just keep sleeping.”

“Danny—”

“L’mme go,” Danny slurs, not letting Steve put his arm back. “Stomach’s a mess, man.” With a quick look at Grace, he stands and disappears.

A few minutes pass before Danny shuffles in, looking worse than ever. Rather than take his seat—which is close to Grace’s bed, but still a few feet away—he stands at her side.

Steve joins him, bumping their arms together. “Are you okay if I leave for five minutes?”

Danny snorts. “Coffee get you too?”

“Sure. If that makes you feel better.”

“Yeah. I’m fine,” Danny murmurs. Not once have his eyes left Grace.

Steve pats him on the back and heads out, across to the elevators then down to the basement, to the gloomy hospital cafeteria. Danny, of course, is very far from fine. And as much as it kills him, Steve can’t fix Grace—but he’s gotten Danny to stop with the coffee, so maybe now he can get him to eat something. Maybe even, God willing, sleep a little.

A few minutes later, Steve returns to Grace’s room with a banana, a blueberry muffin, and some Gatorade. Danny’s sitting again, chair pulled as close to Grace’s bed as it will go. Steve moves his too; then sits beside Danny, not asking permission before he puts the banana in his hands.

Danny eyes it with silent distaste. He turns it over in his hands a few times—but, eventually, peels it and eats it slowly.

At first, nothing changes. But fifteen or twenty minutes later, Danny grabs the muffin and all but devours it, then starts to work his way through the Gatorade.

Steve tries not to gloat. “How’s your stomach?”

Danny sighs lightly, and stretches. “Say it. Say you told me so.”

“I’ll save it instead.”

“Save it?”

“Use it as, like, credit towards a future purchase. So you’ll believe me next time.”

“Oh, is that how that works?”

Steve doesn’t reply, just smiles as he looks Danny over. The shaking has lessened dramatically, maybe more of a blood sugar thing than Steve had originally estimated. But his body isn’t still. Danny flexes his feet, cracks his knees, bounces his legs—anything to keep his lower half in motion.

“Danny?”

“What?”

“You gotta sleep, man.”

“No.”

“You’re way past running on fumes here.”

“Can’t,” Danny whispers, sounding small and almost afraid. “I _can’t_, man. Can’t even sleep on a normal night.”

“Then just rest your eyes, please. Fifteen minutes. You’re exhausted.”

“How the _fuck_ am I—”

Danny’s voice breaks.

“We’ll sit here,” Steve continues, softer now. “We’ll literally sit right here, Danny, and I’ll stay awake. And if there’s anything you need to know about, or even if Gracie just wants to talk to you, I’ll wake you up. You won’t sleep through anything important,” Steve adds. And on a whim he reaches over, and squeezes Danny’s knee. Danny’s face crumples, and he lowers his head.

“Come on. Come on, Danny.”

“I can’t. I can’t do this.”

“I’ll wake you up. I promise.”

“I—” Danny begins, then has to swallow, hard. “I’m gonna dream about it, Steve.”

“I’ll wake you up from that, too.”

Danny still looks far from sure.

“Hey. Hey, listen to me. I’m using my credit now.”

That, at least, gets him a laugh. “Fuck off.”

“No can do. We stopped with the coffee, we had some food, and all of that helped, right?”

“I guess.”

“So trust me? Please? I’ll even up the ante.”

“Huh?”

“You know. You know.”

Danny lets his eyes slip shut for a moment. “Oh.”

It works, like Steve knew it would. Danny, grumbling but agreeable now, lays his head on Steve’s shoulder and waits patiently while Steve gets his arm in a comfortable position— and begins to stroke Danny’s head.

And Danny whimpers. On his life, Steve hears Danny whimper. But still not a crying thing— definitely a happy thing, or at the very least not displeased.

So Steve keeps going.

The sides of Danny’s hair have been buzzed recently, and they’re softer than usual. It’s a bit like petting Eddie (if Eddie got shaved), and even though it’s for Danny’s benefit, Steve finds himself relaxing too. Tugging Danny a bit closer, his warmth welcome in the chilly room. Running the sides of his fingers again and again, over the downy fuzz, and God, Danny forces his hair into such harsh styles but if he ever just let it be, it’d be softer than anyone else’s that Steve can think of—

Less than five minutes later he hears a quiet snore.

Steve listens, hyper-aware of even the slightest shift in the length or depth of Danny’s breaths, ready to wake him at the first sign of bad dreams. But nothing happens. Danny sleeps on, dead weight against Steve’s side in a matter of minutes, drooling on Steve’s shoulder and not so much as twitching when a nurse checks Grace’s vitals or a baby cries in the hallway.

Steve can feel his own eyes drooping, but there’s no danger there. He’s forced himself to remain awake and alert through far worse exhaustion than this, and for far lesser reasons.

Of course, he acknowledges that he’ll crash eventually too. Everybody else is resting—Danny and Grace, and Rachel, and Charlie—and he’ll have to take his turn sooner or later.

But not now. Now he’ll keep stroking Danny’s hair, and watching Grace’s heartbeat on the monitor, and giving thanks for a family that hasn’t been broken. And a world that’s steadied out, after all.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Drowing in WIPs and I've gone ahead and started this instead. Still, a lot of these prompts will be cleaned-up versions of mini-stories I've already written for my own amusement. So in that way this feels sort of like cleaning out my fic clutter, and therefore being productive even if it's yet another project.
> 
> I really hope you all enjoy :)


	2. Explosion (Jerry)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> After burning his hands in the explosion, Jerry’s hurting but trying not to show it. Adam finds him stargazing at Luka’s memorial, loopy on pain meds and in need of a friend. Coda to 9x14.

The mood on the beach is both somber, and celebratory. Some people are crying; some people are dancing. Some people are doing both. And though Adam didn’t plan to stay long—pay his respects and then go home to bed—he finds himself mingling anyway, nursing a drink and catching his breath.

It’s not the hardest case Five-0 has worked. Maybe not even the hardest case since he joined up, but on the other hand, it wasn’t easy, either—hatred and homophobia and, oh yeah, Jerry almost dying.

Not that anybody has acknowledged this aloud. There’s been sympathy for his injured hands—as well as friendly jokes, both bawdy and otherwise. But the fact of the matter is that Jerry was in real danger today. If he’d been standing any closer to the explosion, or leaning forward, this day could have had a much different ending.

Adam shakes himself. He’s drifted down to the edge of the water, but that’s hardly the best place to be. Too solitary, too vulnerable to overthinking. He ought to head back towards the crowd; actually, come to think of it, he ought to find Jerry himself, and see how the man is doing.

So far he’s handled the painful injury with his typical sense of optimism. But there are second-degree burns covering both of his arms and one of his hands, and all else aside, it’s got to hurt like hell. Not to mention he’s staring down weeks of reduced function. Possibly OT and maybe even a skin graft, from what little Adam’s been told.

So yeah, Jerry could probably use a friend right now.

Adam makes his way back up the beach, not exactly rushing but not allowing himself to dawdle, either. Night has fallen. Many of the patients that Luka helped have gone, shifting the ratio until it’s mostly his friends, and the atmosphere is accordingly sadder. Adam catches sight of Kamekona and Steve, sitting quietly with Flippa.

He finds Jerry not too far away from them, cross-legged on the sand, staring up at the sky. There’s nobody with him. He smiles, but doesn’t make eye contact as Adam settles beside him.

“You doin’ okay over here?”

“Uh-huh. Tryin’ to see some stars.”

“Well, there are worse places in the world,” Adam replies, craning his head back. “Tokyo comes to mind. But there are better places too.”

Jerry doesn’t reply. Adam gives it a minute before glancing over to find him staring, open-mouthed; there’s a brightness in his eyes but Adam’s honestly not sure if it’s tears or a trick of the light.

“Are you okay?”

Jerry nods.

“Is there something you wanna talk about?”

“Huh? No. Oh!” Jerry finally looks over, with a smile. “Oh no, I’m not— I’m not like, being emotional. Not to say this isn’t emotional. Totally valid thing to be emotional about.”

“Yes, it is.”

“But that’s not it. I—well, I hurt my hand. And my arms. I hurt my hand and my arms. Oh, you knew that! I’m sorry, you already knew that. But anyway. I have, like, deep second-degree burns. There are two levels of second-degree burns, and that’s the worse one. And I didn’t think I was even gonna take the pain pills they gave me but it hurts so I took them and now I’m _slightly_ high. Why are you smiling?”

“I’m smiling because I’m glad you’re okay,” Adam replies, honestly. “And because, yeah. You’re definitely high, Jer.”

As further illustration, Jerry giggles, and tilts a little closer to Adam, who pats his back.

“Did the pain meds help?”

“Yeah. More or less. It’s still bad enough, though.”

“I’m sorry. Do you wanna go home?”

“Well, Steve drove me. And he’s talking to Flippa, and Flippa’s crying, so. I thought about calling an Uber. Well, technically, I use Lyft, but the colloquial use is Uber, isn’t it? Anyway, my phone’s dead. I didn’t have much juice left, and then I forgot to turn the flashlight back off, earlier, and it died.” He mugs upwards, and his expression combined with the roundness of his face makes him look more a twentysomething than a fortysomething.

“Do you want me to take you home?”

“Oh, shit,” Jerry breathes, eyes half-closing. “Could you?”

“Of course.”

“I’ve actually been wanting to go home really bad.”

“Well, why didn’t you say anything?”

By now his expression is more of a pout. “Everyone was havin’ fun. Maybe? I know it’s, like. A memorial. But people were smilin’.”

Adam laughs. Jerry’s charming, in a strange sort of way, and this quality has not been dampened by intoxication. “Come on. I’m driving you.”

“Yo, that’s awesome. You’re awesome.”

He lurches awkwardly to his feet, only one good hand available, and that good hand still connected to an injured forearm. Adam steadies him carefully by the elbow.

They don’t bother with goodbyes, not only because it doesn’t feel necessary but because Adam’s not totally sure Jerry would want to be seen this way. Not that he’s making a fool of himself or anything. But Jerry, despite what people might assume, actually cares quite a lot what people think about him, and so better safe than sorry. Instead they go directly to Adam’s car. Adam opens and closes the door for Jerry; then, once he’s sitting as well, reaches across Jerry and buckles him in.

“Thanks,” Jerry whispers. There’s a melancholy to his voice that wasn’t there before, and Adam squeezes his knee before turning the ignition.

They’re quiet for the first few minutes. Then a hitch begins in Jerry’s breathing, and Adam lingers at a stop sign to look over. “You all right?”

“Yeah. Um. Kind of queasy.”

“You need me to pull over?”

“Nah. Scale of one to ten, I’m at a four,” Jerry replies, sniffling a little. “So I’m definitely unhappy. But we’re not in the danger zone.”

“Okay.” Adam just hopes that number won’t increase as they get on the highway.

But it doesn’t seem to. Jerry’s silent, staring out the window; his thickly bandaged arms lay motionless in his lap. When they park in front of his apartment, he just sighs in relief.

“Thanks,” he murmurs, when Adam undoes his seatbelt. But he gets out of the car himself, and a few seconds later unlocks his front door as well, though there’s some failed attempts first. They head inside, and through to the kitchen. Jerry slumps in a chair at the table, while Adam gets him a glass of water.

“So, what’s the plan? Medically, I mean?”

Jerry’s holding the glass now, staring into its surface. “Seeing my GP tomorrow. But from what the EMTs said, it’ll be a few days before we know if I need any grafts. They give it a chance to heal on its own first, y’know?”

“Right.”

“And I guess we’ll go from there. A lot of it’s up in the air.”

“Junior filled me in on what the paramedics said.”

“Right. I mean, we didn’t have time for a full-on conversation, but they said—best case scenario, it’s totally healed in three or four weeks. Worst case scenario is skin grafts, OT, permanent scarring. Which is, like. A really wide range of outcomes, y’know?”

“Yeah, it really sounds it.”

Adam settles beside him, and they keep silent company for a few minutes, while Jerry drinks his water. When the glass is empty he pushes it aside. Then he slumps over the table, palpably exhausted. Adam lays a hand on his back.

“You should get to bed, man. Is there anything I can help you do?”

“Nn. Thanks.”

“Are you sure? I hate to say it, but—stuff’s gonna be difficult, the next few weeks.”

“I know.”

“So I’m not offering a sponge bath or anything”—Jerry snorts a little at this, without raising his head—“but can I make you dinner? Or—run a load of laundry, or anything?”

Jerry shakes his head, then finally pulls himself upright. “’ppreciate the offer. And I may have to take you up on something, at some point. But there’s nothing that needs to get done tonight.”

“What about your bandages? Did they say when to change them?”

And the way in which Jerry carefully doesn’t answer makes Adam’s chest tighten a little.

“Seriously?” he prompts, touching Jerry’s back again. “Man— were you gonna do it yourself?”

Jerry shrugs.

“That’s crazy,” Adam tells him, firmly. “Do you have supplies, or do I need to run out?”

“I have stuff. Steve brought it over. But you don’t—”

“Stop,” Adam interrupts. And Jerry doesn’t argue any further.

There’s a pharmacy bag on the kitchen island, and Adam goes and grabs it; inside he finds antibiotic cream, gauze, and a few rolls of Vaseline-lined bandages. He brings over to the sink, and looks back to find Jerry staring at it, balefully.

“Hey,” Adam says, keeping his voice soft. “This is gonna suck, Jerry. Let’s just get it over with, okay?”

Jerry nods and, wordlessly, gets up and shuffles to join Adam at the sink.

Adam sets the supplies out. Then he turns the tap to hot and scrubs his own hands a few times, before setting the water back to warm. Then there’s nothing else for it. With a sympathetic smile, Adam moistens the bandages on Jerry’s arms and carefully begins to peel them away.

And, wow. Adam considers himself to have a fairly strong tolerance for things that are, well, disgusting. But at the sight of Jerry’s burns, his stomach turns uncomfortably. There’s at least a dozen thick, milky blisters, and a few have burst, leaking onto the skin around them. The coloring is mottled. There’s patches of bright pink, but, more concerningly, areas that are pale, nearly bloodless.

Jerry chuckles. “Hey man, are _you_ gonna throw up?”

“No,” Adam replies. Though for half a second there it was definitely tempting.

“I can do this, y’know.” Jerry’s voice is low, and suddenly quite sober. “Really, I was gonna do it myself, anyway.”

“Yeah, you said. How the hell were you gonna manage that?”

“Um.” Jerry smiles. “Trial an’ error?”

Adam gives him a _look_ (the same one Kono used to say would make him a wonderful father— sympathetic but stern) and keeps going. It’s slow work. The bandages have stuck to Jerry’s skin in some places, and loosening them without irritating the area takes care.

He’s nearly finished, when a small noise stops his hands. Jerry bites back a whimper, though not completely, and Adam glances up to find his face colorless, beading with sweat.

“Sorry,” Jerry gasps.

“There’s no reason to be,” Adam replies, stilling for a moment. “Do you need a break?”

Jerry shakes his head, hard, so Adam goes back to it, spreading a thick layer of antibiotic ointment over the burns before wrapping them in the Vaseline-lined bandages.

Finally, some ten or so minutes later, Adam finishes. He sighs, and looks up—to find tears of pure pain welled up along the edges of Jerry’s eyes.

“Sit,” Adam directs, gently. “You did great, man.”

Jerry nods, maybe a little bit beyond words; then he slumps at the table again and just sits there, shivering from the pain come-down.

Adam sits beside him. Puts an arm around Jerry’s back and rubs gently through the fabric of his T-shirt, as Jerry covers his face with his good hand. Eventually the tremors pass.

“Yo,” Jerry sighs, once they have.

“Yeah?”

“That hurt so much more than I thought it was gonna,” Jerry admits, still sounding breathless.

“You all right?”

“Yeah. Yeah. I planned to be a lot more manly about that, by the way.”

“I don’t see how you weren’t. It’s not like you screamed. And that— I mean, that had to hurt. A lot.”

“The trick, William Potter,” Jerry says, putting on a funny accent, “is not minding that it hurts.”

“I’m sorry?”

“Prometheus. Well. Lawrence of Arabia. But I was thinking of Prometheus.”

“Okay.”

“I minded, though. Even though I tried not to.”

“Where’s your pills?” Adam asks, giving one last pat on Jerry’s back as he stands.

“Bathroom.”

“All right. Hang on.” Adam goes, and returns a minute later with a bottle of pain meds and a bottle of antibiotics. He refills Jerry’s water. Then reads the labels and shakes the appropriate doses into Jerry’s unbandaged palm.

“Thanks,” Jerry murmurs.

“There’s only like one more dose in these.”

“Yeah. I think they’ll write me the full scripts tomorrow.”

“When is your appointment, by the way?”

“Nine.”

“Okay. I’ll be over at eight, then?”

“Huh? Oh—no, Adam, you—I was just gonna call an Uber—”

“You mean a Lyft?”

Jerry smiles weakly, and Adam shakes his head. “I’ll be here at eight.”

“Okay. Thanks, man.”

Still, Jerry doesn’t look very happy about it.

“Hey.” Adam reaches down, and squeezes gently at Jerry’s uninjured hand. “I’m the last person you should worry about asking for help. You’ve put me back together more than once. I mean it, Jer.”

“Okay,” Jerry breathes.

“I’m not kidding. I get it, that you feel like you’ve got something to prove, but—”

“Adam?”

“Mm?”

“I said okay,” Jerry replies, flashing the most genuine smile that Adam’s seen from him all night. “Thank you. Seriously.”

“Anytime, brother. How’s it feeling?”

“Hurts,” Jerry grunts. Then, after a small pause, “I got exploded.”

“I know.”

“It was really, really scary, man.”

“I know,” Adam soothes, pulling Jerry close. Jerry presses his cheek to Adam’s stomach and rests there for a long, comfortable moment.

“Go to bed, Jer,” Adam says, eventually.

“I know.”

“Can I help with anything?”

“Nah. Jus’—how bad is it, if I don’t brush my teeth tonight?”

“I think the world’ll keep turning.”

“Okay. And if I don’t walk you out?”

“Not a problem, either,” Adam replies, with a smile. “I’ll lock up. Go get some sleep.”

“I am.”

“Before this new dose kicks in and you distract yourself stargazing.”

“On my way.” Jerry’s knees knock, slightly, as he hauls himself to his feet, and starts across the kitchen floor. “’night, Adam.”

“’night, Jerry.”

“Thanks again, man.”

“Don’t even worry about it. I’ll see you in the morning.”

And then Jerry’s through the doorway and out of sight, but Adam keeps smiling anyway.


	3. Delirium (Danny)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Being trapped in a freezer is kind of funny—right up until it’s not.

Out of all the strange aspects of their current situation—and there are plenty—maybe the strangest is that they last half an hour before the bickering starts.

That’s not intentional. The first twenty minutes are spent combing over the room, brushing ice crystals from seams in the metal walls and trying—in vain—to determine an escape route. The next ten minutes are spent talking Danny down from a panic attack.

So the fact that they don’t start in on each other for a while, that’s just a side effect.

But Steve’s bored. No, worse than bored, he’s restless, full of energy that he has no outlet for and also, okay, already shivering pretty badly.

(The late start to bickering is the strangest aspect. But it’s also pretty strange that they’re about to catch hypothermia in Honolulu and, also, they actually still have walk-in freezers that people can get trapped inside? Like on a stupid old sitcom? Of course, in a sitcom there’s just accidentally no safety latches. In the real world, the safety latches have been welded into useless blobs.)

So he pokes Danny, with one unsteady finger, and waits for his attention.

“Wha’?”

“You look cold.”

“I am f-fucking cold. My nose isn’t even r-running anymore because the snot all froze up!”

“This doesn’t make you feel at home?”

“Fuck you,” Danny growls. “D-don’t use Jersey against me like that.”

“This isn’t that cold. I’m sure you’ve had colder.”

“Okay, and, and, in these ci-circumstances, I’ve had a c-_coat_, Steve! I’ve had colder but it was _all right _because I was _expecting_ it.”

“So you admit it: it was never a skill! You just owned warm clothes!”

“I didn’t say it was a skill! Who s-said it was a skill?”

“You! You act like being from Jersey is a freaking achievement!”

“You know what? I’m getting used to it n-now.”

“See, there you go! Tough guy, because you’re from the mainland.”

“Fuck you! I’m from the north-fucking-east!”

“Fuck you, I’m a Navy SEAL!”

“Uh-huh. You know what we used to do when it s-snowed? We’d roll the fuck around in it. We’d go outside and lie d-down on the snow and _roll around in it_. And we’d eat it! Steve! Put a lil’ maple syrup on it and _we’d eat it_!”

“So you made shave ice.”

“No, we did not make shave ice! Ice f-fell from the sky and we fucking ate it!”

“You’re saying this like I’ve never drank rainwater, Danny!”

“Fuck!” Danny howls, face twisting with bitten-back laughter. “Fuck you! I’m fucking cold!”

“Yeah, this isn’t—I’m not loving this.”

“Damn it,” Danny whispers. Then he gives in and does what they’ve been stoically avoiding, and curls up against Steve’s chest, arms around his waist. Steve latches on with equal fervor. They’re both shivering, badly, and it’s an awkward mismatch of rhythms, but at least it’s warmer. By a little. There’s nothing in the room with them, not even a carboard box to sit on, to cut the cold from the floor. They are quite literally all they’ve got.

Steve buries his face in Danny’s hair and lets his teeth begin to chatter.

“Lemme tell you why I love Jersey.” Danny’s voice is muffled against Steve’s shirt, and the little bit of extra warmth that his breath produces just makes Steve shiver harder.

“Why d-do you love Jersey?”

“Not just Jersey. The cold.”

“You love the c-cold?”

“’cause when you’re cold—you warm back up with—with blankets, and a fireplace, and hot chocolate with Bailey’s in it—you come in and your hands hurt and your cheeks hurt, but it’s okay because—once you’re back inside, everybody sits close, y’know? You put on sweaters—you keep each other warm.” Danny sniffles; and for the record, it does indeed sound like his snot has frozen solid. “You come in from the heat? You stagger into the fucking AC and you’re s-sweaty and gross and you d-don’t want anybody coming within ten feet of you!”

“We’re gonna have h-hot chocolate af-fter this?” Fuck, the tension in his muscles is really starting to hurt now. “With B-bailey’s?”

“So much,” Danny whispers, nuzzling Steve’s chest with his forehead. “So fucking much.”

“That’s n-n-not so b-bad.”

“I miss it. Grace—Grace’s first big snowstorm, when she was four, I think—we got two feet. Literally two feet. She almost disappeared, goin’ out in it. Not really, but. She had this bright pink hat. Like a little—like a little hibiscus, stickin’ out of the white—”

“Hib-biscus?” Steve snorts. “D-Danny, that’s—that’s Hawaiian, man. F-face it, you’re—you’re an islander now.”

“Am not.”

“You just told me the n-nicest story ab-bout your daughter playing in the—in the snow, and you said—that she looked—like a little hibi-bi—_fuck_.”

A fit of tremors, by far the worst yet, overtakes Steve; he clings to Danny and shuts his eyes. Prays the others will find them soon.

He’s out of energy, all of a sudden. And Danny, it seems, doesn’t have it in him to keep up a one-sided conversation. So they lapse into silence, broken only by the click-click-click of Steve’s teeth.

And it must be slowing him down mentally, too.

It takes way too long for him to realize that Danny’s stopped shivering.

“Hey,” he whispers, relieved to hear a quiet grunt. “S-stay aw-wake, Dan. T-talk t’m-me.”

Another grunt. “’m tired.”

“I kn-know. I kn-know, man. B-but you gotta. You g-gotta talk. Tell m-me more ab-bout J-jersey.”

At first he doesn’t think that Danny will reply. From the sound of his breathing, Steve’s pretty sure that he’s awake, but that doesn’t mean much. He’s feeling the lethargy himself by now. And it seems like Danny’s a few steps ahead of him, hypothermia-wise.

But just when Steve’s about to prompt him again, Danny blows out a slow breath.

“Tha’ storm? That firs’—’06, I think. When it was—it was goin’, we—I—I was off an’—the didn’ call me in. Stayed w’th Grace an’ Rach all—all day. B’the—the nex’ day—was even colder. I worked. Beat, around—ha’ the beat around—the train station. It was so fucking cold, man. Th’ guys, they—they’d all sleep under—sleep under th’ overpass. In th’ station. Got too cold. They’d go in an’—and sleep on the benches, in the wait room, but—we weren’t—we weren’t supposed to let ‘em. Bu’ we—we couldn’ send ‘em back out, man. So we—we’d—m’—w’ had ropes. Rope th’—rope th’ area off. Lil’ part ‘f the—‘f the main way. Roped off this lil’ part of the floor, an’—an’ that’s where they could sleep. Jesus, it was—they were packed. _Packed_.”

It kind of sounds like Danny’s crying, now. Though it’s hard to tell, given how bad he’s slurring.

“S-sounds like you d-did what you c-could,” Steve murmurs. He tries to hug tighter, but he can’t quite manage.

“D’dn’ matter. It didn’ matter.”

“I’m su-sure it did.” But Danny doesn’t reply.

“’s fucking cold,” he whimpers, instead, pawing weakly at Steve’s hip. “We’re gon’ freeze.”

“No, we’re n-not.”

“Y’ don’t know that. People freeze. People—people die out here. You gotta stay inside, man.”

“I know. I know.”

“I know it’s tight,” Danny whispers. “Please, stay inside. Jus’ f’r tonight.”

“Danny? You w-with me?”

There’s no reply. Against Steve’s chest, Danny’s breaths are getting shallower; and if Steve’s not mistaken, confusion just slipped into full-on delirium.

There’s not too many more stages left.

Danny doesn’t speak again, though Steve tries to make him. Tries to prompt him, tries to tease him, tries and fails to get any reaction at all. By the time he gives up, he feels the fog creeping over him as well.

So much so that he can barely part his eyelids, when at last the door bangs open. Warmth and light and noise flood in, and Steve can’t get to his feet, can’t be the one to carry Danny out. Can only give a wordless shout as Lou pulls Danny away from his chest; without that warmth against him, Steve shivers anew.

“He’s all right. McGarrett! Are you listening to me? His pulse is strong.”

His frozen mouth is out of words, now. He works clumsy lips, hoping Lou will understand.

Lou does.

“Don’t give me that look. He’s fine, and you’re gonna be fine too. Let Junior help you up, while I get Danny to the bus.”

And whatever happens next—whatever happens between that moment, and the moment that Steve wakes up under a heating blanket in a hospital bed two hours later—Steve doesn’t know.

Doesn’t know, but knows it doesn’t matter.

Danny’s alive.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Not in love with this, but I suppose if I'm going to be writing 31 of these (which I very much hope to do!) then I can't expect to adore all of them. Really getting excited for some upcoming ones, though :) Thanks to all who have been reading and leaving comments!


	4. Human Shield (Steve)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Two months after Azra Hassan smuggled a plastic gun into their offices and aimed it at Steve’s chest, it’s almost routine to come in and see Steve’s office empty. Canon divergent coda to 9x25.

Two months after Azra Hassan smuggled a plastic gun into their offices and aimed it at Steve’s chest, it’s almost routine to come in and see Steve’s office empty. Almost. But still not completely, so Danny does what he’s done at least twice a week all summer, and pockets some tissues, and heads down to Jerry’s office.

He finds the man exactly where he expected. Tucked up on the couch, doing expense reports which, hey, at least that’s something, because Steve despises expense reports. He did not, as he’s said on multiple occasions, become a cop to do expense reports.

He also didn’t become a cop to watch one of his closest friends die playing human shield but hey, that’s a whole different avenue.

Danny perches on the couch, leaving a cushion between them. Steve glances up and grunts a _good morning,_ but that’s all Danny gets. Not that he expected much more. But seriously— seriously it’s been two months now and Steve’s still haunting this office like it’s him who’s the ghost, and Danny can’t allow it much longer.

So he takes a deep breath. “What’s up?”

Steve glances at him again, eyebrow cocked. “What’s _up_?”

“Yeah, what?”

“What, what,” Steve grumbles, shrugging him off and looking down again. “I’m not in the mood, Danny. That’s what’s up.”

“Don’t get mad at me, that just because the state of Hawaii gives you _immunity and means_ that you still have to do paperwork.”

Steve sighs, and doesn’t respond.

Danny hadn’t really expected him to. This is generally how it goes: sitting in silence until something happens that forces them back upstairs.

Once in a while it goes differently. Once in a while, it ends with Steve curled up against the back of the couch, or against Danny’s shoulder, crying his fucking eyes out.

To be honest, Danny finds those days easier. Easier, to give Steve tissues and rub his back and tease him for how loudly he blows his nose.

Easier to watch him miss Jerry, than to watch him hate himself.

Steve doesn’t like needing protection, and he sure as hell doesn’t like having his needs put before the needs of others. So Jerry literally giving his life for Steve’s? That was never going to be an easy pill to swallow. And Danny’s not really in the best position to talk somebody down from hating themselves, because frankly—

If somebody had to die that day, Danny’s glad that it—well. That it wasn’t Steve.

Talk about a valid reason to hate yourself.

So, let’s try something else.

“We’re starting today,” Danny says, evenly. “Assuming we don’t have to go save the island.”

“Starting?”

“Packing this place up.”

Like a marionette with abruptly-tugged strings, Steve goes suddenly rigid. He jaw goes taut, and his eyes go cold— cold not like ice, but like iron.

It’s nothing Danny hasn’t seen before. He reaches over and squeezes Steve’s hand, not concerned— well, not _very_ concerned— when Steve’s fingers don’t so much as twitch in return.

“It’s time, babe.” Danny keeps his voice low, soft as he can make it. “Summer’s almost over.”

“What does that matter?”

And Danny laughs a little at that because, okay. If you don’t have kids, September isn’t your new year. Still, the seasons turning—even in a place without seasons—has got to mean something.

“I brought some boxes. They’re in the car.”

“I—” Steve starts, then has to stop and swallow. The hardness in his eyes flickers, briefly. “I haven’t finished, figuring out his system.”

“What do you mean?”

“His filing system. So we can keep these resources.”

Danny glances to his left, where he knows he’ll find a banker’s box marked _CROP CIRCLES_ in Jerry’s surprisingly legible handwriting. “Okay. Jerry, if you can hear me, I’m sorry, and I love you. But. Seriously? We need to keep these _resources_?”

“Not all of them. But some of them, yes. Which is why I need time to figure out—”

“His filing system,” Danny finishes, and Steve falters again, for longer this time. “This’ll help with that. We go through; we keep anything that could be useful. And we get rid of the rest.”

“Get rid of it?”

“I mean, not his personal stuff, obviously. We’ll pack that up for his sister. Or,” Danny adds, quickly, “if there’s anything that one of us would like to keep, I’m sure he wouldn’t mind. But not all of this stuff needs to stay, man. And frankly, the computer and techy stuff—somebody else could be using that.”

Steve doesn’t respond. And Danny thinks, not for the first time, of how it took _years_ for Steve to redecorate anything in the house, after his father’s death.

“Steve—”

“Don’t. Danny, don’t do this today.”

“You gonna be ready tomorrow?” Danny pulls a face, even though Steve’s not looking. “You gonna be ready the next day?”

“I dunno,” Steve mumbles. His armor’s long gone, and it strikes Danny that he’s maybe never heard the guy sound so utterly lost. “Just can’t today.”

“You know it has to happen eventually. And how’s that bullshit go? _Tomorrow you’ll wish you’d started today_?”

Steve doesn’t even respond to that, which, okay, Danny can’t totally blame him for. So instead of getting big-picture motivational on him, Danny changes tack.

“Okay. Compromise with you. Today we just do the filing cabinets. We make some space in there, and then we have somewhere to keep anything else we wanna keep later. Okay?”

Steve’s response is the tiniest of nods. But it doesn’t need to be anything more. As Danny watches, he puts his paperwork aside and glances around the room, taking deep, slow breaths. And when he speaks, his voice is steady.

“Remember how happy he was, when he first got this office?”

“Yeah. I do.”

“Man, he fought so hard for it. And then the second he got it, he was fighting for the badge—”

“He really was,” Danny agrees. Steve flashes him a weak smile, which Danny takes as his cue to move closer and sling an arm around Steve’s shoulders. Steve leans in, with a sigh.

“I miss him.”

“I do too.”

“He just— he calmed me down.” Steve snorts. “Sounds like a weird thing to say about a guy like that. But he did. And he—he just—I dunno, man. I miss him a lot.”

There’s a tiny crack in his voice now; Danny glances over, sees tears in his eyes. It’s not full-on crying, not falling apart—just welling up a little. Not a conscious act of grief but something that just happens sometimes, when you’re this fucking _sad_.

“I know,” Danny murmurs, tugging him closer. “Steve, I know it sucks, and there’s not a whole hell of a lot that either of us can do about it. But you’re not gonna do it alone. That’s kind of all I can tell you, but I’m telling you. You’re not gonna do it alone. Okay?”

“Okay.”

“You needa sit here for five minutes, before we start?”

“No.” Steve shakes his head, and wipes his eyes. “No, let’s just start.” And with no further pause, he gets to his feet and goes to the filing cabinet closest to the door.

Danny doesn’t. Danny, in fact, has to take a few very careful breaths before he’s out of danger of falling apart himself. Because—because shit, Jerry was his friend, too. And frankly it’s hitting him for the first time that maybe _he’s_ not ready yet.

But he lingers for less than a minute. Then he pushes himself up, and goes to Steve’s side. This isn’t a bullet he’s going to take for Steve, but not one he’ll let Steve take for him, either.

No shields, this time. They’ll take it together.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Coming to accept that Whumptober will absolutely continue into Whumpvember, but I'm still having fun with it :) And honestly, that's what I get for starting so late!


	5. Gunpoint (Jerry)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Jerry has an existential crisis in Adam's living room. Coda to 10x01.

Jerry doesn’t intentionally drive to Adam’s apartment; he just sort of—arrives.

Similarly, when Adam opens the door, he doesn’t think about his words. Just opens his mouth, and what spills out is, “can we talk about being shot?”

Adam blinks. “Sure?” he replies. Then, being Adam, he helps Jerry inside and settles him on the couch, then goes off to get them some wine. Jerry stares at his feet and waits for his friend to return.

It’s less than a minute, probably. But by the time Adam settles beside him and eases the glass into his hand, Jerry’s shaking so badly that he can hardly hold it.

Or maybe he’d been shaking already. He can’t recall.

Adam’s arm around his shoulders is maybe the only thing in the world that feels steady. “Hey, what is it?”

“I think ‘m having a midlife crisis,” Jerry gasps. “Which is running super late ‘cause I’m for sure not gonna live to be ninety. C’you take this back, please? ’m gonna spill it.”

Adam does as he’s asked, and in the corner of Jerry’s eye he can see his friend putting both glasses of wine on the end table before coming back, sitting even closer this time. “Jerry, I think you’re hyperventilating.”

“Might be. Was before.”

“Well, let’s take care of that first, okay? Then we’ll deal with the rest of it.”

“Not breathing in a paper bag,” Jerry grumbles, and Adam laughs softly.

“That’s a last resort. Cover your mouth; try to breathe through your nose, all right?”

Jerry nods. Clamps his fingers over his lips and that, combined with the feeling of Adam rubbing his back, is enough to level him out.

When it ends, he slumps over his knees. Just lets himself rest, for a long, quiet moment.

It’s Adam who breaks the silence, a few minutes later. “Did something happen?”

“No.” He feels, ironically, a little out of a breath. “Nothing happened. Just worked myself up, I guess.”

“Over anything in particular?”

“No. Yes?”

“All right.”

“When you were—when you were shot. What came next?”

“What came next?”

“I mean, when you realized that you—when you realized that you were gonna live. Did that suddenly feel like just a—a really big responsibility?”

“Yes. Absolutely.”

“And all the stuff you were doing, it seemed—smaller?”

“You want the truth?”

“Obviously.”

“Then no,” Adam replies. “That part, I can’t relate to.”

It’s not the answer Jerry expected, and he can see from Adam’s expression that he looks as confused as he feels.

“Sorry,” Adam adds, smiling tiredly. “I’d just gotten married, and I thought I was about to buy my freedom from the Yakuza. And then suddenly I’m in a wheelchair and every penny of that money is gone. It was—survival mode. Walk again. Keep Kono safe. None of that was small. And I didn’t have time to be existential, in any case.”

“Right.”

“Though that did come. Two years later, when she left me. But you were there for that.”

Technically he’d been around by the time of the shooting, too, but it’s true that he and Adam hadn’t been close at that point. He can’t even remember if he saw him in the hospital.

It feels like another lifetime.

“Jerry. Talk to me, man. Don’t worry about making sense, just—get it out of your head.”

“Okay. Right.” He pulls the deepest breath he can manage. “The book’s going well.”

“Good. That’s good!”

“But I—I thought the book is what I wanted to do. I thought that’s what was missing. But the more I look into it, the more I realize that it—”

“What?”

“It doesn’t matter! It doesn’t matter, and, I gave up something that did matter, for it.”

“Why do you think the book doesn’t matter?”

Jerry lets his expression answer that one, at least partially. “Compared to actually solving murders?”

“Well. You said it, not me.”

“And I’m starting to wonder—did I leave because I wanted to do something more important? Or did I just—freak out and leave because I wanted to change?”

“You’re allowed to need a change, Jer.”

“But I wanted to change everything!” Jerry argues. Adam has a knack for helping him sort his thoughts out, and the fact that he’s not doing it now makes Jerry want to cry a little. “The second I got out of the hospital, I wanted everything to be different. And new. And—bigger. And now I wake up and make coffee and write and the whole time I’m wishing—that I were doing something else. Something more important.”

“You know you’d be welcome back—”

“I don’t want to come back,” Jerry snaps, then puts his face in his hands because, damn. He showed up a shaking mess on Adam’s doorstep and now he’s shouting at the guy? That’s really not cool. “I don’t want to come back,” he repeats, softer now. “It’s—that part’s hard to explain, but it feels like it’d be stepping backwards.”

“So you made a change, but you want a—bigger one?”

“Maybe.” He scrubs at his forehead. “Izzy wants me to move to the mainland. Stay with her a while.”

“Do you want to?”

“Could get behind it. I’ve never lived in California. But then, part of me’s always meant to live in Chile for a while. Ever since my dad died. To see where he grew up.”

“Those are—in different directions,” Adam replies, offering up a smile. “Sorry to say it, but you seem pretty lost, brother.”

“I’ve been lost since last Halloween,” Jerry admits. Finally speaking aloud what he’s been thinking for a while now. “Since we found Susanna. In a way I think nothing’s felt real since then. Bein’ shot was just—extra credit.”

“_Extra credit_.” Adam’s still smiling. “You saved Steve’s life.”

“I know.” Suddenly the panic just sort of drains out of him, and Jerry slumps, head on Adam’s shoulder. “I’d do it again. But, like. I wish it hadn’t happened?”

“Yeah. Be strange if you didn’t wish that.”

“You know what’s weird? It happened really, really fast. There wasn’t, like, a moment, a specific moment that I was _held at gunpoint_. But when I look back? My mind kinda puts one in there.”

Adam nods, his body shifting very slightly below Jerry’s cheek. “Yeah. I’m with you on that one. How it really happened is, one second I was standing, and the next I was on the ground. But in my memory, somehow, I—I see the moment Gabriel aimed at me. It stands out, like the tape glitched.”

“I like that,” Jerry mutters. It took a few minutes, but finally Adam’s familiar presence is seeping into him, evening him out. “The tape glitched. That’s exactly what it’s like.”

“You want your wine now?”

Jerry nods, mutely, then makes himself sit back just enough to Adam to reach the glasses. He accepts the one he’s handed, drinks half in one go. Then he hunches forward again and lets Adam rub his back while he works through the rest.

“I’ve been looking up teaching programs,” he says eventually. Even though he hadn’t meant to mention that, until and unless he actually went farther with it.

“Honestly, I think you’d make a great teacher, Jer.”

“If you pass the exams, you can get your actual cert in night school, while you’re already teaching.”

“You’d teach computers?”

“History,” Jerry replies, with a quiet laugh. “My friend Suzie was a history teacher. And she’ll come back and haunt my ass if I say she had it easy, but she did have time for her own research. ‘specially in the summers. So, technically I wouldn’t have to give up on the book.” He sighs. “And I just think—man, how much would it have meant to me, to have a teacher like me when I was a kid? To have somebody who’d listen to me. Maybe even believe me. It would have meant, like, the freaking world, honestly. Anyway. It seems important. It seems like something that I could do, if I wanted to do something important.”

“All right," Adam huffs. "So, to summarize: you might write a book. You might become a teacher. You might move to the mainland, or you might move to South America. Or—some combination of these?”

“Right.”

“Is there—anything I can do, to help you decide?”

“No. But—”

“But what?”

Jerry peers up, finds Adam smiling at him again. “You could tell me that I don’t have to decide tonight. Please?”

“You don’t have to decide tonight. I promise.”

“Yo, thank god, man.”

Adam shakes his head, laughing noiselessly. “Take your shoes off, Jer. You want some more wine?”

“Yes, please.”

"All right. I'll be back in a minute."

Adam goes, and Jerry does indeed kick off his sandals and tuck up in the corner of Adam's couch. And he tries, not in vain, to take slow, steady breaths.

Indecision is still a storm inside of him. The windows he’s closed against it are a stopgap at best. But he’s with Adam, and they’ve got wine, and he doesn’t have to decide tonight.

He doesn’t have to decide tonight.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hmmm... not the whumpiest, but the next few will be TEARFUL, I promise.


	6. Dragged Away (Steve)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Danny's fine. That doesn't mean Steve doesn't need to cry about it. Coda to 8x10.

The thing is, Danny’s going to be fine. Literally. Doctors don’t say “full recovery” unless they really, really mean it; and they’ve been saying it freely. Danny himself has been saying it, too. He’s sleeping now— because getting _shot_ makes him tired, _Steven_— but not like dying-sleep. Or even sick-sleep. It’s the kind of sleep where Steve could shake him awake in two seconds if he needed to.

And if he did that, Danny would definitely say something along the lines of, _I’m fine, you goof, let me sleep._

So Steve resists the urge. Barely.

Danny’s fine, everyone’s fine, and that means there’s no reason to be upset. But in the past week he has watched his best friend come within inches of death— he has seen it up close, full technicolor— _twice_. And so.

There’s at least a little bit of a reason to be upset.

Everybody left a few hours ago. They offered him rides, of course, but nobody forced the issue. And to be honest, it’s not only just about sentiment. Somebody literally tried to kill Danny, less than twenty-four hours ago, and even if that guy is dead, they have no idea who he was. No idea if Danny’s safe now. So obviously somebody’s got to keep watch—

Then there’s a knock on the door. Lou, Junior, and Tani— the latter two with guns and badges— enter, smiling at Danny’s sleeping form.

Steve frowns, rights his posture. “What are you doing here?” he whispers.

“What am I doing here?” Lou shakes his head. “I’m takin’ you home, brother.”

“No, I—” And maybe he’s more tired than he thought, because forming a coherent response is actually effortful. “Somebody’s got to stay with Danny.”

“That’s what _they’re_ doing here.”

“We’ll be ready this time, commander,” Junior adds, at the exact same time that Tani grins and says, “let the young people take the night shift, old man.”

Steve rubs his newly-buzzed hair. Tani’s just being Tani, of course, but actually he does feel—well. A hell of a lot older than he felt a week ago.

“You gotta let us help.” Lou hasn’t been bothering to whisper, but his voice goes soft now. “This ain’t you two alone against the world—”

“I agree,” Danny croaks, making Steve jump. “Hello, literally everyone.”

“We aren’t literally everyone,” Junior argues, smiling.

“We asked Kamekona to come back,” Tani adds, “but he says you aren’t bad enough off to bother with now.”

Lou nods. “And Jerry texted. Said both kids, and Eric, passed out the second they got home. So that’s where all of them are.”

“Okay,” Danny huffs, smoothing his hair back with his non-IV hand. “There’s still a lot of you. And you’re loud, and I got a headache.”

Steve’s stomach drops, thinking of just how many post-surgical complications could present with a headache first. “Buddy, you want me to find the doctor?”

But Danny just pulls a face. “I want you to leave. And not come back ‘til morning. And you two! Frankly, if you two are gonna stay and play bodyguard, I want you to do it _silently_.”

“You heard the man,” Lou says, addressing all of them. Then, to Steve, “you gonna listen to him? Let me take you home?”

“Yes, Steven, are you gonna listen to me?”

“’m never gonna listen to you,” Steve mumbles. His hand’s over his face again, and he’s not totally sure when it got there. “I guess I could listen to Lou, though.”

There’s a few more minutes of talking—filibustering, if Steve’s being honest—but soon Danny starts actually snapping at them. Lou pulls Steve from his chair by the wrists.

“Morning,” Danny reminds him, all but wagging a finger. “You aren’t welcome ‘til the sun’s up, Steven.”

Steve pulls a face. Bops Danny on the crown with an open hand to prevent himself doing what he really wants to do, which is kissing Danny’s forehead. Forehead kisses are reserved for worse situations than this.

Then Danny whacks him on the arm—a _lot_ harder than he’d whacked Danny—and Lou laughs and drags him away. Down to the elevator, and out to the moonlit parking lot.

It doesn’t occur to Steve until the moment he steps outside that this is his first breath of fresh air in almost a week. He can smell ocean. And barbeque smoke and car exhaust, and it smells amazing, and it feels amazing, filling his lungs.

And it occurs to him that he almost died, too.

Not for the first time, but that’s not something you ever get used to.

Lou’s hand at his elbow coaxes him off the sidewalk and, presumably, in the direction of Lou’s SUV. Steve lets himself he led. With someone else’s touch for comparison, he realizes that he’s shaking a little. When was the last time he ate?

Lou must be thinking the same thing, because he names half a dozen takeout places in the area, then glances at Steve expectantly. But honestly? If he’s going home, he’d rather just go home, and he gets out some words to that effect.

Lou accepts this. They’re at his parking spot by now, and Steve lets himself in on the passenger’s side without even the mildest complaint. He’s quiet on the ride, too. Quiet all the way to his own front door, until he realizes that Lou’s following him in.

Then he laughs, just a little. “I’m fine, man. Thanks for the ride.”

“I know you’re fine. I also know you’re hungry, and that you love my omelets.”

“My omelets are perfectly decent. And you gotta be tired too, for real.”

“Hey.”

Something in Lou’s tone shuts him up again, quite effectively. Steve takes a deep breath. Stares at the wall behind Lou’s head and wonders if Jerry would mind bringing Eddie back tonight.

“He’s fine, Steve. You’re fine, you’re all fine, so, at ease, okay?”

“I know.” Steve clears his throat. “I know he’s fine.”

“Okay. C’mere.” And, apparently in lieu of further conversation, they’re just going to hug instead.

Which is, actually, okay by him. Lou’s just so damn tall, is the thing, and Steve’s not used to being short enough to put his head on somebody’s shoulder without stooping but he can with Lou. And it’s seriously one of the best feelings in the world.

It feels—safe. Just really, deeply, absurdly _safe_, and Steve wraps his arms around Lou’s waist and takes slow, enormous breaths.

Breaths that start to hitch, before too long.

He know Lou can feel it; which means Lou can also feel him reeling it back, shutting it down. Wide hands pat his shoulders, and Lou lets him pull away. “Boy, you need a shower. You smell like hospital. And the bad kinda sweat.”

Steve laughs, lungs still juddering a little. They haven’t even made it past the entryway of the house, so when Lou nudges him he heads directly upstairs, into his bedroom, into the en suite bathroom, and turns the water on full blast.

It’s been building up in him for days now. Adrenaline and fear and preemptive grief. And he could keep pushing it down—that’s all he did, for more than half his life—but he doesn’t do that anymore. He handles shit. He lets himself feel it. Otherwise, what’s the point of every Wednesday night, sitting cross-legged on an under-stuffed couch, talking about himself for an hour straight?

He works through this kind of thing now, instead of burying it deeper. And what is it his therapist said?

Crying is a tool. It’s a defense mechanism against chemical imbalance, that we’ve gone ahead and made a cultural taboo. But it’s a healthy response. You breathe faster when you need more air; your blood clots so you don’t bleed out.

You shed tears when stress hormones build to too high a level. You literally cry it all out.

So Steve does. He strips, and climbs into the shower, and bursts into tears. Soaps up his body and shampoos his hair, mostly out of muscle memory, but then just stands there, weeping, rubbing his hitching belly with one hand, hiding his eyes with the other. But hiding them—why? Nobody can see him. Nobody can hear him, over the water. And maybe Lou has some vague idea that he might be crying, but he doesn’t have the details, and it’s not like he’ll ask. Nobody can see him.

Nobody can see him.

So he takes his hand away, leans against the tile wall, and sobs a little. Then sobs some more. Then blows his impressively clogged-up nose directly into his hands, then washes his hands, then washes his face. Then does it all again. The water is warm and the tile is cool and he’s alone in here. Alone for the first time in days: a comfort he didn’t even realize he’d been missing.

Nobody watching him. Nobody counting on him to keep control.

So he doesn’t.

And when it’s over, he feels better. A lot better, honestly. And once he’s dried off and dressed and gone down to find Lou cracking eggs, tea kettle whistling—he feels better still. He slouches at the kitchen table, hazy and calm.

A few minutes later, a plate and a mug appear before him, and Lou laughs as he rubs the back of Steve’s neck with overwarm fingers. “I’m gettin’ used to this. Slowly.”

“Needed something to do,” Steve gripes, then yawns.

“Surprised you didn’t force this on the rest of ‘em. New Five-0 dress code.”

“I tried. Believe me.”

“I think Tani’d look kind of punk. Junior, it’d look natural. Looks natural on you too, once that first shock wears off.”

“What about—”

“I think if you value your hands, you don’t bring those clippers within ten feet of Danny Williams’ head.”

“Yeah. That’s the impression I got when I tried,” Steve admits, earning him another fond scruffing. He sighs. There’s a leftover tremor in his lungs, but the rest of his insides feel easy, steady.

“Eat,” Lou coaxes, settling in the chair across from him. “Then sleep. I’ll be here to get you by eight tomorrow.”

Oh, right; his truck’s not here. It’s so much of a nonissue that he hadn’t spared it a thought.

“Thanks,” Steve murmurs, and sips some tea. Lets it sit in his long-empty stomach for a minute, before he starts in on the omelet.

“You know it, brother. You okay if I head out?”

“Yeah,” Steve replies, meaning it. “I’m fine.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Soooo not what "dragged away" was probably intended to mean, but I do love me my weepy Steve McGarrett <3


	7. Isolation (Danny)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It's 4,948 miles from Newark, New Jersey to Honolulu, Hawaii.

Saturdays didn’t mean much at Steve’s last job, so admittedly, he forgets about them sometimes now. So it doesn’t really occur to him, why Danny looks surlier than usual, as he buckles himself up in the passenger’s seat. He ignores it, fills his partner in. Only when he’s finished with the run-down does he put two and two together, and when he does, he rolls his eyes a little.

“Right. Weekend. Sorry you didn’t get to sleep in, Your Highness.”

Danny grumbles a non-response, then goes silent once more.

It’s not their usual car ride, and Steve gets restless before too long. Hopeful for even a grumpy, it’s-too-early-for-this conversation, he glances across to Danny—and his stomach drops.

Danny’s crying. Like, there are big fat tears coming down his cheeks, unambiguous, on display. He’s silent, but he’s—_weeping_.

There’s two courses of action available: one he ignores it, and two he doesn’t. Ignoring it is easier. Ignoring it is also what he’d want Danny to do if the situation were reversed— but as Danny is so fond of pointing out to him, they’re all but perfect opposites, and maybe he could make Danny feel better. He doesn’t actually like seeing his partner upset. Especially not on the way to a scene.

“Danno?” he says.

It’s the wrong choice. He glances over again, and Danny meets his eyes and glowers at him. He’s beyond annoyed now, honestly angry. “Don’t,” he hisses. They look away and in Steve’s peripheral he sees Danny scrubbing his cheeks.

“You’re crying.”

“Yes, Steven, I am.” Danny’s voice is low. “Because I am a human being and when I am sad, sometimes these wet things come out of my eyes. That is how being a human works.”

“What’s wrong?”

Steve doesn’t quite know how to take it, that Danny actually looks surprised to hear this question. “Didn’t even get far enough to pick her up this time,” he says, going slightly hoarse.

“But you didn’t—” Steve frowns. “You didn’t have Grace last night. I thought you didn’t have her this weekend.”

“She had a sleepover. I was supposed to pick her up this morning. Which means not only do I not get to see her, I also get to have Rachel bad-mouthing me to all the other moms when she goes to pick her up instead.” Danny sniffles, wipes his eyes again. “And I know, I get that it is not the end of the world. But I—I was just—really—” Danny’s voice chokes off.

“I’m sorry, man.”

“No, fuck you, Steve.” Danny sniffs again. “You realize, you never fucking asked me if I wanted this. You realize that, right? And you— you probably thought, how could anybody not want this, but you didn’t ask me. If I wanted the—the extra fucked-up cases and the eighty-hour weeks every other week, so. Fuck you, Steven fucking McGarrett, because if I did not know you I’d be making my little girl pancakes right now.”

The light ahead is stale yellow, and even though Steve could put on his lights and run it, he doesn’t. He stops, looks over at Danny, who honestly doesn’t look so good. Compared to the last time he glanced over, only two minutes ago, Danny looks less like somebody struck with a short spell of the weepies and more like somebody rapidly losing the fight not to break down and bawl like a baby. Believe it or not, Steve does know the feeling. Just that he always wins that fight, and he’s honestly not sure Danny’s going to. And they’re about four minutes from the scene.

And the light just turned green.

But Danny fights hard. Steve hears the creak of the glove compartment opening, then the gurgle of a nose being blown. Danny’s breathing evens out. And by the time they get to the scene, there’s maybe the slightest stain of red around his eyes, but other than that, the whole thing might never have happened.

They work the case. And for few solid hours they don’t have time for anything else whatsoever; just running and thinking and a little bit of shooting. And it pays off, because they’re (somewhat miraculously) wrapped up by early afternoon.

Leaning against the camaro in a now-empty trailhead lot, Steve points to his watch as though their expediency is his personal gift to Danny—which, let’s be honest, it kind of is. “How about that, huh? Two more criminals off the streets, and we’ve still got the better part of the day left.”

“Mm. I see.” Whereas Steve’s leaning mostly for effect, Danny’s slumped against his car like he won’t stay upright otherwise.

“So? What are you and Gracie gonna get up to?”

“They—” Danny stops, and swallows. “They took a day trip to the north shore. After I said I couldn’t get her.”

“Oh.” Shit. “Sorry, man.”

“Yeah.”

“You get to see her tomorrow, right?”

“Yeah.”

But Danny doesn’t seem much placated, which is hardly a surprise— though the rest of his reaction is still unexpected. Danny’s default is anger. So even after this morning’s episode, watching his partner sag, seeing his eyes fill with tears, catches Steve off guard.

He looks _miserable_. Lonely and homesick and miserable, and so open about it that Steve starts to feel a little bit miserable too.

“I’m sorry,” he offers, looking away again.

“You know what, Steve, as much as it physically pains me to say this— it’s not your fault. I️ do this job to keep people safe, and if somebody decides to kill somebody on a Saturday instead of a Tuesday well—then that is on the person who decided to kill someone at all. I️ just.” Danny coughs, and out of the corner of his eye Steve watches him scrub at his face a little. “I️ just wish that people would not decide to kill people. Especially not on Saturdays.”

“Yeah. ‘d be nice.”

Steve gives it another thirty seconds or so, before clapping both hands to the side of the car, and standing. “Man, we still have the day. I know this trail, and it’s _gorgeous_. You wanna check it out?”

There’s no response. When Steve looks over to gauge Danny’s exact lack of excitement, he finds an expression more withering than he could have imagined. “I do not.”

“Okay. Let’s go grab some plates and make plans from there.”

Danny’s frown, if possible, twists even deeper. “I don’t want _plates_, Steven. I don’t want to go hiking, or surfing, or take a fucking lei-making class, or any other fucking jungle man shit that you can dream up. Take me the fuck home, and let me live out the rest of my shitty fucking Saturday in peace.”

“Wow.” And Steve’s annoyed now, though he’d actively decided not to be. “Let it all out, Danno.”

“I’m trying let it out without socking you in the face,” Danny mutters.

“You realize that people all over the world pay thousands of dollars to come here. You realize that, right? People save for _years_ to come here for a _week_.”

“Well, that’s smart of them. Can’t buy a goddamn candy bar here without hemorrhaging money out your ass.”

“Okay. Okay.” He’s slightly more than annoyed now because, yeah, Danny doesn’t want to be here, but Steve just spent seventeen years—fully half of his life— away. So would it kill Danny to respect just a little how happy he is to be home? “Not for nothing, man, but I haven’t seen you give it much of a chance.”

“What chance do you want me to give it? I’m not like you. I’m not a freaking jungle man by nature. Okay? I don’t crave the world. I liked living twenty minutes from the house I grew up in. I liked knowing that If I had a shitty day I could go bitch to my sister. I️ liked my ma sending me home with leftovers and frozen gravy twice a month. I️— I miss my mom. Okay? I miss my ma and my family and my buddies. And just— you know. My pop-pop, my grandad, he’s not going too good. Four strokes in two years. There’s every freaking chance then next time I fly out’ll be for his funeral. And my parents, I know they’re younger than some, but they won’t be around forever either. They’re missing their granddaughter growing up. And I’m missing my niece and nephew. Eric’s a goddamn mess over there, and I swear, I’m not trying to make myself sound more important than I am, but—he doesn’t listen to anyone else. This asshole doesn’t listen to _anyone_ but me, and I’m worried sick about him.”

The tears are back, and the faster they swell up, the faster Steve’s annoyance settles down. He leans back against the car. “I think I forget sometimes,” he admits. “How far you are from home.”

“Four thousand, nine hundred, and forty-eight miles.” They look over simultaneously, eyes meeting for the first time in minutes. “Four thousand, nine hundred, and forty-eight miles, from Newark, New Jersey, to Honolulu, Hawaii. And that’s as the crow flies.”

He looks away again, scrubs at the now-falling tears. “I️ understand— I️ understand that I️ am a grown man. I’m thirty-three. But I️— I miss feeling like I knew the ground under my feet. I knew how things worked. Felt steady. I had friends. I️ have friends, you know that? I️ have people. They’re just not here. Draw a circle around me, you know, a five-thousand-mile circle and I️ got one person in that whole damn circle. One. And she’s my world, you know, but she’s seven.”

Danny leans back further, short enough to drape his entire frame against the car. He stares up at the bright blue sky that, apparently, does nothing to soothe him.

“You act like I’m offending your whole damn island,” he mutters. “Like that’s my intention! Look, if I we’re back in Jersey in February, and somebody gorgeous, somebody I loved to death, said let’s go to Hawaii and eat tuna tartare and make love in a hotel with a beach view, I’d be fine with it. I’m sure I’d pass a lovely week and maybe I’d even go to the beach once or twice just to say I had. But that is not the situation. The situation is— I’m living in a fucking shithole, coming home to nobody, fucking tired of seafood by now and, oh yeah, my fucking dog died, going through the goddamn rabies quarantine bullshit! My fucking—dog—died!”

And this is where Danny crosses the line from crying to little-kid hiccup-sobbing, and Steve crosses the line from out of his element to absolutely lost.

“I don’t hate Hawaii, man,” Danny chokes out. “I just hate being here. I hate being alone.”

Well, _shit_. Danny’s folded forward now, sniffling into his hands. He stays like this, shuddering and hitching for a long, long moment.

“Sorry,” he grunts, when he finally leans back. There’s a couple tears still beaded on his cheeks, and he smears them away.

“You don’t have to be sorry.”

“Mm. You do nothing but bad-mouth me for being too sensitive, you’re saying you’re not gonna hold this over me ‘til the day I die.”

“_Danny_.” Steve sighs. “This may come as a shock to you but I’m not actually a terrible person. I— I’m sorry you’ve been feeling this way, buddy. I really am. Homesick’s miserable, I get that, and I️ don’t feel anything but— you know. Wishing I could fix it.”

Danny’s been eyeing him, suspicion clear, but he softens now, just a little. “Yeah. Miserable.” He scrubs his eyes again.

And Steve puts his arm around Danny’s back, completely unsure of why he didn’t do this before. Maybe he’d thought it too much of an assumption? But Danny hardly seems to mind; he slouchs into the crook of Steve’s side and, not ten seconds later, puts his head on Steve’s shoulder. Steve feels him settle, going the slightest bit heavier.

“Listen,” Steve begins. “There’s not a whole lot I can say. But that circle, that five-thousand-mile circle? You got more than one person inside of it. I swear you do. Danny?”

Steve peeks down to see his partner’s eyes closed, mouth a little open; soaking in the human contact with such bare-faced need that Steve feels even shittier for not offering it before. He tugs Danny a little closer.

“No hike today. Let’s just get some beers and relax, okay? You can even pick the beer. Doesn’t gotta be local.”

Another minute passes. Then Danny snuffles, clears his throat. “Can I pick the movie?”

“Movie or beer. Not both.”

“Can I pick the movie, and we get two different kinds of beer?” Suddenly the pressure of his body against Steve’s lessens. “I’m not that broke. Don’t gotta split a fuckin’ six-pack.”

“I’ll allow it.”

“Gracious.” Danny’s warmth now disappears completely, and though it’s a hot Hawaiian afternoon, Steve still misses it a bit. “Okay. I’m all cathartic’ed and such.”

“Better?”

“Didn’t say better. Said _cathartic’ed_, which probably isn’t a goddamn word, but you can keep your mouth shut.”

“_Catharted_, probably.”

“What did I just say?”

Danny peers over, and they lock eyes again. For a second Steve thinks the guy will thank him, and prays that he doesn’t. “Let’s go,” Danny says, instead. “Can we go?”

“Yeah. Wanna stop at yours for a change of clothes?”

“No. I wanna borrow some of your shit so I can be lounging and drinking as soon as possible.”

“Logical,” Steve agrees, and unlocks the car.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Possibly unpopular opinion, but I found Danny's character a lot more sympathetic in the earlier seasons. I feel like we just don't get the same moments of softness from him that we used to. But anyway. I was looking back through some of my older writings and found some snippets on this theme, about how utterly fucking lonely Danny was in season one. Like. Miserably, heart-breaking lonely. And I got Danny-feels all over again, because I know what it's like to be the one that moves away. So here's some Danny-feels.
> 
> Also, Danny's dog did, canonically, die during quarantine procedures. I forget the episode, but it was mentioned once. And never brought up again.


	8. Stabbed (Jerry)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jerry and Lou get some bad news about the young cop they took care of during the hurricane. Tag to 9x15.

The winds have died down, but it’s still raining so hard that Jerry’s feet are getting wet from well inside the doorway. The lights in the parking lot are, somehow, still going. But all that serves to do is create the impression that the Palace is the last holdout of the universe, and that everything outside of it has simply been washed away.

Lights flashing, the ambulance hurdles into that oblivion.

“Close the door, Jerry.” Lou’s voice is soft, but stern, and there’s only a moment of hesitation before Jerry’s able to comply. He turns away from the now-muted sounds of rain—and is met immediately by Lou’s arms, wrapping tightly around him.

“What’s this for?”

“’cause you looked like you needed one. ‘cause that was a crazy few hours we just had.”

“Oh,” Jerry whispers, and lets his head rest on Lou’s shoulder. “Yeah. It was.”

“You did good, man. He’s gonna be all right.”

Jerry’s honestly not so sure about that. By the time they got through to emergency services, Haku had lost consciousness; and it took almost ninety minutes longer for paramedics to actually arrive.

But it’s out of his hands now. And, maybe because of this, he’s suddenly too tired to keep up the steady stream of worry.

“All right,” Lou murmurs, pulling away. “Come bunk with me. Case that basement of yours really does flood.”

Logic suggests that it won’t, if it hasn’t already. But Jerry doesn’t really feel like being alone, so he lets Lou shepherd him down the hallway, up the stairs, and all the way into his office.

*

Jerry falls asleep quickly, but he doesn’t sleep well. He’s badly on edge, not only from nerves but from coffee-jitters and coffee-heartburn, the latter of which is only made worse by the MRE he inhales before hunkering down on Lou’s couch. He dozes, head lolling from shoulder to shoulder. Upright not only to calm his stomach but because Lou already has to sleep with torrential rain; he shouldn’t have to sleep with Jerry snoring as well.

The night passes strangely. Not awake, but not really resting either, he thinks about blood and shelf-stable ravioli, and Lou’s stocking feet, which have somehow ended up in his lap.

*

When he opens his eyes, he’s maybe more tired than ever. The rain has stopped but the sun isn’t up yet, and for a long, sprawling moment, he can’t place what woke him.

Then: Lou’s voice again. And with it comes the vague, feverish impression that something is wrong, in the same way it felt forty years ago to overhear his mom and dad whispering to each other in the living room, late at night.

“Thanks,” Lou’s saying. “I understand. Thank you.”

Then he hangs up the phone, and doesn’t lie back down. “I wake you up, Jer?”

Jerry grunts.

“I guess that’s a yes? Jerry—listen. That was the hospital.” Lou clears his throat. “Haku didn’t make it.” A pause. “You heard me, man?” 

Not-really-sleeping has translated to not-really-waking, and Jerry blinks into the darkness and lets spill the first words that come to his lips. “Are they sure?”

“Are they—yeah, Jerry,” Lou replies, and though at first it sounds like he’s angry, his voice comes gently in the end. “They’re sure. You with me?”

“No,” Jerry huffs. “Time’s it?”

“Just four. Go back to sleep, baby,” Lou whispers. And the last thing Jerry thinks is that the captain might be crying.

*

Jerry dreams, about shoving cotton gauze into a stab wound in a man’s abdomen, because that is something that he’s done now. Something that he knows the sensation of, all too well.

He packs Haku’s wound with wad after wad of it, but it doesn’t seem to accumulate; packs him until he should be an overstuffed teddy bear, but all the gauze just disappears. Then Haku turns into Suzie, and the gauze turns into newspaper. And he shoves her full of crumpled-up balls like he’s making a scarecrow, until he wakes with the taste of vomit already in his mouth.

“Jerry?”

“‘m’nna ge’ si’,” Jerry slurs, struggling to his feet. He’s vaguely aware that it’s daylight now, as he stumbles and sways his way to the bathroom.

Inside he clutches the sink, stares into the mirror. Pleads with the rising tide of bitter thickness to recede, but it doesn’t, and he staggers into the first stall. Goes to his knees. Tucks over the bowl and surrenders; and the surrender, in a way, is comforting.

Then the comfort’s gone. A second later his stomach spasms, hard, and a big, horrible shudder runs down, then up, the length of his entire body. He pukes, then coughs. Pukes, coughs, coughs some more. The acid scorches his throat and nostrils, makes his eyes stream, makes him feels so helpless and awful and _sick_ that he can’t stop himself from shouting a little, a wordless, useless exclamation of misery. Then the shout glitches. Turns into ugly, vocal retching, and Jerry clings to the rim of the toilet as his stomach once again turns inside-out.

Even when it’s over, he still can’t catch his breath. He’s sobbing, he realizes; so he slumps against the painted metal of the stall divider and surrenders for the second time.

*

Some minutes later, something cool and damp is laid across the back of his neck.

“Just me,” Lou’s voice soothes, followed by the sound of the toilet flushing, and the feeling of a water bottle being pressed into his hand. Jerry forces his eyes open, and uses the water to rinse his mouth out.

“You’re all right,” Lou murmurs, handing him another moistened towel. “Wipe your face, baby, I got you.”

It takes a minute, but Jerry does as he’s told. Cleans himself of puke and sweat and tears, and when that’s done, the world seems to settle down a bit.

“Sorry,” Jerry croaks, lifting his face to Lou’s.

“I’m sorry that I told you when I did. Shoulda waited for the daylight.”

“Don’t think it would’ve made a difference. I just—I was dreaming about it, y’know?”

“Oh. Well, you were quiet. I woulda woken you up, if I’d known. I never went back to sleep.”

Which is all that Jerry needs to hear, to know that Lou’s as broken up about this as he is. If he were a better friend, he’d pull himself together and give Lou a turn to fall apart. But he—can’t. He honestly can’t. All he can do is hide his face with one shaking hand and try not to cry anymore.

Lou’s knees pop faintly, as he crouches beside him. The positioning of the hug is ridiculously strange, but the rest of it isn’t as awkward as Jerry might have thought.

The not-crying-anymore thing goes right out the window.

“I know, I know,” Lou mutters, at the same time that Jerry chokes out, “what did we do wrong, man?”

“We didn’t do nothin’ wrong, Jerry. The man was stabbed. People get stabbed, they don’t always pull through.”

“I,” Jerry stammers. “I thought he was gonna.”

“I got nothin’ t’say, Jerry,” Lou whispers, holding him close. “There’s nothing that can fix this.”

“I know. I know that.”

“So let’s just—get ourselves out of here, okay? Out of the bathroom, out of the Palace. You can come over to mine, or I can drive you home.” Lou pulls back, and teeters on the balls of his feet. “You think you can stand?”

Maybe not. Maybe? He sure as hell doesn’t want to; but he also doesn’t want to keep sitting on sticky tile, smelling the lingering stench of his own regurgitated dinner. “I can stand,” Jerry murmurs.

“All right. You need a hand?” Jerry shakes his head, and climbs to his feet without Lou’s assistance; still he lets his friend put a hand on his back, and guide him away, towards the door.

He lets himself be led. And he goes, not looking back, but somehow feeling he’s left something behind.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> How many of these injury prompts are going to be the boys reacting to somebody else getting hurt? Only time will tell....


	9. Shackled (Tani)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Tani doesn't like being restrained. It’s a thing, but don’t read too far into that.

The handcuffs come off, and Tani runs; sprinting, falling, sprinting again, to get away but also to prove to herself that she can move freely. She can _move freely_.

Shackled no longer.

She bursts out of the building. Hurdles down the concrete stairs and keeps going, until her feet hit pier and she literally can’t go further without swimming.

Even that, she considers. But maybe there’s some rationality left awake in her, or maybe it’s just the threat of how badly the salt water would sting her wrists—either way, she stops herself from diving in. Sinks down to the sturdy, faded wood, and gasps for air. The wood vibrates with footsteps. She’s known all along that there’s somebody behind her, but she also knows they’ve been keeping their distance. Not a hostile, then, but someone friendly—maybe the person who got her free, though she honestly, honestly doesn’t know if that was Junes or McGarrett or a uniform or, hell, the goddamn pope, for all she can remember—

“Tani?”

None of the above, then, but still a voice she knows. Familiar: drawling, and perpetually a little congested. She grabs onto these tiny details like a flotation device.

“I’m with her. She’s fine; no bus.”

Which Tani appreciates, distantly, because she’s sure that she’s not fine but also sure that she’ll lose it again if she’s tethered to so much as an IV drip.

“Tani? Look at me, babe.” Then there’s hands on her shoulders, and Danny doesn’t _know_ but must suspect, because he moves her without ever restraining her. She let herself be turned, stare up into Danny’s cool blue eyes.

“You with me?” he prompts.

And it’s real, then; he’s really there; and Tani’s all too happy to turn the situation over to him, and let go.

*

The world fades in much more slowly than it faded out. She feels wood below her cheek. Feels her body, slumped more or less in the recovery position; sees black trousers, crossed legs, not too far away. Then her eyes focus. And she sees Danny, pale in the sunshine, looking unusually patient—and absolutely shirtless.

Tani flops onto her back. “Why’re you—?” she slurs, nodding vaguely at Danny’s bare chest.

He smiles down at her. “Ah. Well. The good news is, my shoes are way more expensive; and those, you missed.”

And Danny’s words, combined with the horrible funk in her mouth, don’t leave much doubt about what she spent those forgotten minutes doing. She lets her eyes close, and moans. Danny kneels at her side and, very slowly, helps her sit.

“Listen. I got kids, babe; I’ve had way worse. On the shoes. In the hair. In the _mouth_, one time, which I do not want to elaborate on.”

“I puked on you. Holy fuck, this isn’t how I pictured the day going.”

“To be fair, you tried to lean over the edge. But I don’t think your arms are really workin’ right now, so I grabbed you before you could fall in, and. Yeah. Then you puked on me.”

Something else that he says is just enough to take her mind off it. She couldn’t hold herself over the water? And, not even a minute ago, she couldn’t really sit up on her own—

“Fuck,” Tani whispers. And suddenly the burning at her wrists—not to mention the burning in her cheeks—is nothing compare to the blazing fire in both her arms. “Are my shoulders out?”

“Doesn’t look like it. Listen, babe, I know you can take a beating. But hangin’ from your arms, what was it, for like six or seven hours? Even I can’t do chin-ups that long. And for the record, I am the champion of chin-ups. Mention it to Steve, if you want; it’s a sore spot. Speaking of sore,” he adds, softening. “You want me to rub ‘em?”

“My arms?”

“Sure.”

She genuinely mulls it over; weighs the appeal against the risk she takes being touched right now. But it’s Danny. Danny won’t hold her down.

Tani nods. Danny smiles again, and settles behind her; then his fingers begin to work across the ruined muscles of her right arm.

And to say that it _hurts good_ would be a lie. But it hurts in such a way that she doesn’t make him stop.

“So,” Danny says, some time later. “You, uh. You good?”

“Am I good?”

“I mean, that—that was obviously some sort of a thing, that happened just now. A sort of a thing that I have not seen from you before.”

Tani blinks at the water. Danny’s moved focusing on her left arm now.

“I don’t like being restrained. It’s a thing, but don’t read too far into that.”

Danny snorts.

“And if you make it a sexual thing, I will literally end you.”

“How you gonna end me, you can’t use your arms?” Danny teases, poking her in the bicep for emphasis. Everything hurts a lot less now, but she still feels a lot weaker than she’d like. She pulls away, sits facing him, mostly to make sure that she can move herself without assistance. Danny’s head tilts as he takes her in.

“Listen.”

“I’m listening.”

“I’m gonna tell you something.”

“I’m listening,” Tani repeats, feeling herself smile for maybe the first time all day.

“You think you’re cute. Okay. Here goes. I got, uh. I got claustrophobia. Real bad. Panic attack bad.”

“Really?”

“It’s an evolutionary thing, I think. People ask me, did I get stuck in a closet or something when I was a kid, and the answer’s no. There’s just, you know. Monkey-brain doesn’t wanna be trapped somewhere. Your thing, it’s probably the same thing, honestly. Restrained means trapped. Trapped means danger.”

Tani manages another smile. “Thanks for making it seem halfway normal.”

“I dunno about that. I got stuck in an elevator one time with— oh man, with this gorgeous doctor, absolutely beautiful, and I very literally hyperventilated and cried a little in front of her. I’m not sure that’s normal.”

“Well, did you throw up?”

“Did I—? No. I do not throw up, it is not a thing that I do. Did I go home and have terrible anxiety-diarrhea for the rest of the night? Yes, I did.”

“Well, at least that didn’t happen in the elevator.”

Danny cackles. “There you go. That’s called optimism.” He sobers, slightly. “Tani Rey. Babe. I can’t tell you if it’s normal. Anxiety-wise, I don’t think I’d know _normal_ if it hit me with a mac truck. But I can tell you, you’re not the only one with a thing. Okay?”

“Okay.”

“And I know you don’t like your thing bein’ put on display, but nobody does. And what happened today? Nobody’ll make you talk about it, if you’d rather just forget it.”

“I would,” Tani moans, “five hundred percent rather forget it.”

“Okay. We should get back, then. You need a hand up?”

Tani shakes her head and, armlessly and very awkwardly, lurches to her knees, then to her feet.

“Can I put my hand on your back?” Danny asks, once he’s standing too. She nods, slightly annoyed that he felt the need to ask, but mostly just grateful that he bothered to.

“All right,” Danny murmurs, and then there’s a warmth between her shoulder blades. She wraps her arms around herself; it’s a struggle, but feels better than letting them swing limply.

Danny guides them off the pier, away from the water. He pauses briefly in front of the first trash can they see, and Tani groans as she remembers what he’s throwing away—groans again as she remembers that he’s fucking shirtless. It had sort of become background noise, to her.

Danny must follow her train of thought, because he laughs as he starts them walking again.

“Should we tell them that was a sex thing? Something’s gotta be a sex thing, today.”

“I don’t know if the truth would be better or worse,” Tani laments. But it won’t be the end of the world, whatever truth or lie Danny chooses, so she just shuts up and lets him lead her back.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yay! I have never written anything for Tani (or Junior) but at the start of their third season, I think I'm finally forgiving them for, well, not being Chin and Kono. Maybe I'll even write something for Junior, somewhere in here :)


	10. Unconcious (Jerry)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Five times that Jerry falls asleep on Steve.

The first time that Jerry falls asleep on Steve, it is one hundred percent unintentional. And—well, _unwelcome_ is a strong word. But it’s definitely not—

Welcome.

Well, it’s not _not_ unwelcome.

Or something.

Or at least the start of it isn’t. It’s been a rough night, so forgive him if he doesn’t feel like staying home a minute longer; forgive him for rolling into his own office a little before sunrise. It’s his damn office. And yes, in the midst of waking up from another goddamn nightmare, he’d forgotten that Jerry’s taken to sleeping there.

But, there is he. Splayed out on the floor, though there’s a perfectly good couch right next to him, hair all curly and crazy, sound asleep.

Steve stands in the doorway, intrusive, in his _own stupid office_.

And maybe it’s mean, but in that moment he can’t bring himself to care.

“Jerry.”

Nothing.

“Jerry, I need my office. You gotta wake up.”

Still nothing.

“_Jerry_!”

Jerry gasps awake, wrenching upright. For a moment his eyes roam, unfocused. Then he sees Steve. “Jesus _Christ_,” he spits, and buries his face in his hands.

And wow, maybe it was a little mean. Meaner than he’d intended. Jerry’s kind of—shaking. Kind of literally shaking.

Steve sighs.

“Sorry. I—I need my office, man. I didn’t realize you were still crashing here.”

They’re back to the _nothing_ responses.

“I’m sorry I startled you, Jer. Are you okay?”

Jerry heaves a massive, shaky sigh, and scrubs his hands over his face. “Yeah. Sorry. I’m sorry.”

“Bad dream?”

“More like _horrible_,” Jerry mutters. “Honestly, I should thank you for waking me up.”

“Eh. There were gentler ways to go about it.” The last dregs of annoyance have drained right out of him, and in their place Steve feels nothing but exhausted empathy. Leaving the lights off, he goes and flops down on the couch.

“Your dream—‘s it about Susie?” It’s uncomfortably easy to forget that less than two months ago, Jerry’s good friend died bloody in his arms.

In the light from the hallway, he sees Jerry nod.

“You want a hug, or something? I could give you a hug.”

Jerry tilts his head as he smiles; it’s the expression of someone who knows they’re being indulged. “I’m all right.”

“Are you? Because I’ll be honest, you’re looking pretty crappy right now.”

“This’s weird, is all. I’m not used to people seeing me right when I wake up. I need to, like—put myself back together, y’know?” He picks invisible lint from his sleepshirt.

“Yeah. I know.”

“By the way—why are you here so early?”

Steve takes a turn saying nothing, now. Lets Jerry fill in the blanks.

“Right. Do _you_ want a hug?”

“No. But thanks.”

“All right. I’ll just—I’ll get out of your hair.”

“No, wait—wait, Jerry. You don’t have to go anywhere. I—wouldn’t mind company.”

Jerry looks him up and down, like he’s waiting for the trick.

“Seriously, man. Come up here. We’ll sit for a little while, just catch our breaths. That sound okay?”

Another tiny pause; then Jerry hauls himself from the floor to the couch. He settles at Steve’s side, so close their arms press.

Out the window, the sun’s coming up. It should be a sign for the day to begin, but Steve’s more tired than ever. At his side, he feels Jerry going slack.

And barely five minutes later, he feels Jerry’s head drop onto his shoulder; the guy is sound asleep.

And so much for getting a jump on paperwork. Because this wasn’t Steve’s intention; but now that it’s happened—well.

He’s hardly going to make Jerry move.

*

The second time that Jerry falls asleep on Steve is a while after the first—two years, maybe more. They’re better friends by now. But that doesn’t make it any less awkward, at least not on Steve’s part, at least not at first.

He’s not a cuddler, is all. Danny (and Cath, when she was around) wore him down, both of them over long, long years. So not as opposed to it as he used to be. But spooning with his girlfriend or sitting with an arm around Danny’s shoulder is a lot different from what’s happening now—which is that there’s a pillow in his lap. And Jerry’s head is on that pillow.

It's not unprompted, or really that unexpected. It was a tough case, a rough day, and Steve wasn’t even slightly surprised to find Jerry already a few drinks in when he’d showed to the guy’s apartment. He’d hugged him. Let him pick the movie, let him pick the food. Then he’d sat on the adjacent cushion, and had even let Jerry cover both of their legs in the same blanket, which sort of meant they’d been cuddling before they’d even started cuddling.

Then Jerry had picked up a pillow and held it to his chest. And Steve’s not the touchiest of guys, but he knows how lonely it is to get your hugs from a pillow, so he’d tugged Jerry against his side—

And somehow _that_ had turned into _this_. What was intended as a half-hug turned into Jerry laughing unhappily, and shoving the pillow into Steve’s lap, and curling up, becoming unexpectedly small, and—

And not too much later, apparently drifting off.

Steve lets it continue for a couple of minutes, until Jerry’s breathing tells him that he’s passing from a doze into something deeper. Steve bops him gently on the shoulder.

“You asleep?”

Jerry hums. The tone of it sounds like it means _yes_, though obviously Steve’s touch has roused him enough that he can respond. But that response sounds so _sad_, that Steve privately reneges on his plan.

“Okay. Okay.”

Jerry shifts, just a little. “Y’askin’ ‘cause—you need me t’get up—?”

“Nope. Jus’ wondering.”

“You sure?”

“I’m sure, Jerry,” Steve murmurs, and runs a hand down Jerry’s arm to bolster his statement. “You’re okay, man. ‘m not gonna let you sleep the whole night on me, but I don’t mind stayin’ like this for a little bit longer.”

“Thanks. I jus’—”

“I know. I get it, man.”

“Okay,” Jerry mumbles.

And the next time Steve hears his voice, it’s hours later.

*

The third time that Jerry falls asleep on him is much more deliberate—and much less comfortable.

Less comfortable, because they’re stuck in a goddamn cave.

The storm outside makes it safer to stay the night there, which Steve himself has done before—but which he knows that Jerry hasn’t. Still, safety supersedes comfort.

But Jerry’s pretty good about it: he barely blinks when their sat-phone fails them, then builds them a fire without any assistance. If anything, Steve suspects he’s a little excited.

Until the time comes to sleep, that is.

It’s a dank old cave, its walls moist and mossy; Jerry eyes them with displeasure as he readies himself to take the first shift sleeping. Despite this, he settles close. Which Steve understands: however off-putting the walls may be, Jerry still might feel safer lying at the base of one than sleeping out in the relative open. It makes sense.

What makes less sense, is what Jerry does next.

With a barely-contained grimace, he sits beside the wall—and rests his head against it.

Steve stops himself from commenting. Jerry’s allowed to sleep however he pleases, even if Steve himself intends to take his own shift curled up in the warmth of the fire.

But not yet. For now it’s his shift on watch, so he positions himself in the best vantage point he can determine and settles in.

A few minutes pass with no noise by the crackle of fire. And then: a gasp, and a shuffle, and Jerry cursing tightly. Steve glances over to find him on his knees, pawing clumsily at his head.

“You all right?”

“Um.” His voice comes out a little too high. “Think there’s a bug in my hair. But I can’t—”

“You want me to—?”

“Please,” Jerry murmurs, fumbling closer to the fire; Steve meets him halfway. In the flickering light he brushes through Jerry’s newly-short hair—and plucks out not one, but two, moderately-sized spiders.

At his feet, Jerry shudders.

“Maybe no more cave wall, huh?” Steve sits himself back down, cross-legged.

“Maybe not.”

“They’ll keep away from the light. If it bothers you, you should stay by the fire.”

An unexpected solemnity passes over Jerry’s face. “Can’t sleep with my head flat.”

Steve tries not to roll his eyes; tries to remind himself that not everybody’s been through BUDS. “Bunch up your plaid shirt, maybe?”

“No, it’s—it’s not a—comfort thing. I’ve gotta—I need to be upright.”

“Okay—?”

“You remember when I stayed with you?” Jerry asks. “And, like, how bad you said I snored? So, yeah, that was sleep apnea.” It’s hard to tell in the firelight, but Steve thinks that Jerry may be blushing a little. But when he continues, his tone is neutral. “I went to the doctor’s about it. Ended up on a CPAP. Then I lost a little weight, and it got better. But it still flares sometimes, like when I’m sick, or just getting over it.”

And it’s been less than a week since Jerry had an awful cold. Steve remembers sending him home one day, when his cough got so nasty that it was actually distracting.

“It’s been bad the last few days,” Jerry continues, confirming Steve’s suspicions. “I—if I sleep lying down, honestly, it’ll be worse than not sleeping.” He shrugs. “Maybe—if I kind of put my shirt over my head—”

“You wanna lean on me?”

Jerry freezes. His mouth moves a little, but no sound comes out.

“It’s fine, Jer. Put your head on my shoulder—I honestly don’t mind. C’mon,” he adds, when Jerry still hesitates. “You can wake up every ten minutes, you can get spiders in your hair, or you can sleep on me. Your choice.”

Jerry blinks. “I can’t tell if you’re serious.”

“Well, I don’t know how to convince you.”

Still frowning a bit, Jerry relents. Crawls to Steve’s side and, after one more moment of apparent prevarication, rests his head on Steve’s shoulder and settles carefully against him.

“You okay?”

“Mm.”

“See? No big deal.”

Jerry sighs. “Sorry I have sleep apnea,” he mutters, sounding grumpy.

“Yeah. Well. Sorry you’re stuck sleeping in a cave.” _And sorry I got you into this situation_, Steve adds, privately.

“’sokay,” Jerry replies. Then he shuts up, and not five minutes later, he’s sleeping.

*

The fourth time that Jerry falls asleep on Steve, it’s another situation that Steve got him into. Only it’s much, much worse.

Jerry has only just hit the ground as Steve dives to his side, rips open the bloody front of his shirt. The bullet wound is small, but dead center. There’s scarlet spittle on Jerry’s lips as he gasps for air, grasps at Steve with trembling fingers.

The child is crying the background. Steve can hear Danny arresting Hassan, Lou on the phone shouting for an ambulance; but more than anything he can hear the watery wheeze telling him that one (or both) of Jerry’s lungs is badly compromised.

He presses against the wound. Feels blood, and too much suction; realizes there’s an exit wound as well.

He pulls Jerry into his lap to better seal both of them. “Lou!” he howls.

“Three minutes! Three minutes, Jerry, you hear that?”

Jerry just blinks. Panic and color are fading rapidly from his face, and dread washes over Steve as his mind slots together the truth of it all.

Jerry’s dying.

Jerry’s _dying_.

“Hey, hey, don’t pass out on me! Don’t go to sleep on me, Jer, I mean it!”

Jerry’s eyelids barely part, this time. “’m tir’d.”

“I know.” Dimly, Steve realizes that he’s not getting enough air, either. “Don’t fall asleep. Jerry! Jerry, open your eyes—you need to open your eyes—”

*

The twentysomethingth—thirtysomethingth?—time that Jerry falls asleep on him, it occurs to Steve in the silence of the hospital room that he’s going to miss this. Which doesn’t sound right, all things considered. Jerry’s in the hospital because he was shot, and he was shot protecting Steve, so really Steve should want to move on from this as soon as possible.

But he doesn’t. Not this aspect, anyway. It just feels—absurdly safe, is all, curling up with Jerry in a bed they don’t quite fit in together.

Sometimes it’s not this tranquil. Sometimes Jerry, tipsy on pain meds, breaks down for reason he can’t explain, and Steve can only hold him while he cries himself to sleep.

But often, like now, there’s none of that. Often it’s just two guys, two people, each so fucking grateful that the other is alive, cuddling up to one another and just soaking in that comfort.

Steve’s starting to drift off himself, when Jerry sighs awake. In the half-dark they both open their eyes, and Steve pushes upright. “You okay?”

“Mm-hm. ‘m fine.”

“How’s the pain?”

“Like three. Maybe not even.” Jerry lifts himself to face Steve, yawning halfway through. “Seriously, man, I just woke up. Like a normal person just wakes up. I’d be back to sleep by now, if you hadn’t started a conversation.”

“Would you prefer I move?” Steve offers mildly. He’ll do it, if Jerry says yes, but they both know that won’t be the case.

“No,” Jerry huffs. He lays his head down once more, and nuzzles lightly at Steve’s collarbone. “Jus’ prefer you to shush.”

“I’d—prefer that _you_ shush,” Steve grumbles back, maybe a little more asleep than he’d originally thought. Jerry just laughs. Settles, warm and heavy against Steve’s side.

“Night, Steve.”

“Night, Jerry,” Steve murmurs, and lets his eyes close once more. Lets himself sink into the moment.

Someday this will happen for the last time; but that’s not tonight.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Insert the usual complaints about lack of time here. In any case, happy holidays all! Maybe I'll finish Whumptober by 2020. Maybe.


	11. Stitches (Steve)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Charlie's the one with stitches, but Steve does a little healing of his own.

Steve’s seven, the first time he needs stitches. At the beach, he dives for the football like he’s done a thousand times before—only this time, the ending is different. No sand burn, no skinned knees. Instead there’s an ugly gash running the length of one shin, a bloody souvenir of what turns out to be a half-buried broken bottle.

He doesn’t let go of the football. And he doesn’t cry, even though this hurts maybe more than anything has ever hurt in his life. He just stays put, while Dad goes for help. Stays quiet, while a lifeguard crouches before him and staunches the bleeding, and agrees when Dad says that they’ll head to the hospital.

(It’s his first time needing the hospital, too. Only second time he ever even goes to one, and the first being when Mary-Anne was born.)

Dad carries him to the car, but Steve walks into the ER himself. His leg screams and burns with every step; still he doesn’t argue.

Not too much later, he’s in a bed behind a thin blue curtain. A nurse washes sand and clotted blood from the wound, then sews it closed with thick black thread. When she’s finished, she gives him a sticker and shakes his hand.

The weight of it all doesn’t hit him until they’re almost back home; in fact they’re turning onto their familiar road, when the tears finally start coming. Not because it hurts. It does hurt—a lot—but even more than that, it’s—it’s weird and itchy and there’s _thread_ in his _skin_, like he’s a broken teddy bear. Nine little stitches on the outside. Nine matching ones _inside_ of him, and a big spidery knot at the end—

He thinks, briefly, about pulling the knot open. Then he thinks about what will happen if the knot unties accidentally, and will it bleed as much as it did before, and will they have to sew him up _again_, and by the time they park in the driveway Steve’s got his hands over his eyes and he’s biting his tongue not to blubber like a baby.

Dad sighs, when he looks back and sees.

And Steve tries to gulp it all back then, he really does, but instead it spills out faster and his chest and his belly start working too hard, and then he’s crying, _loud_, like Mary-Anne does when she’s dirtied her diaper.

“Steve.”

He can’t even look up, the first time Dad says his name.

“_Steven_.”

There’s a lot less patience, that time, and Steve scrubs his nose and swallows an extra-big hiccup.

“You need to stop crying, now. It’s not that bad.”

“Don’t like it,” Steve mumbles. Only because he has no idea how to explain correctly that the nine little stitches _terrify_ him.

“You’ll upset your sister. Come on, Steve.” And Dad opens the door and gets out, then opens Steve’s door, and waits.

So Steve takes a huge breath. Scrubs his eyes again, and sniffs back all the stuff that’s trying to drip out of his nose.

And gets quietly out of the car.

*

Danny must call the very moment he puts Charlie to bed. For a solid ten minutes, he just rants and rails about the dangers of the big bad world—specifically the dangers of sharp corners, and what they can do to a little boy’s chin.

Charlie is perfectly fine. Just, Danny’s a doting father—and much more empathic than he lets on—and so it kills him to see Charlie hurt, even slightly. Frankly it kills Steve a little, too, just hearing about it. So he talks Danny into bringing Charlie over tomorrow, for some beach-time and Eddie-time; honestly, that will cheer them _all_ up.

Danny agrees. And a minute or two later, he finally says goodnight.

The following evening, Steve’s doorbell rings; he hugs Charlie hello and tries not to look at the crescent of black stitches on his nephew’s chin.

He fails, but Charlie doesn’t seem to notice. Between father and son, Danny is still the one who seems more upset; so Steve hugs him too, even though he saw him less than an hour ago.

They grab two beers and a juice box, and head out to the beach. Steve and Danny settle in their chairs, watching as Charlie and Eddie splash in the waves. It calms them all down, like Steve knew it would. He sips his beer and grunts dutifully as Danny talks about his latest phone call with his sister.

Then the splashing stops. Charlie stands stock still for a moment, before turning and approaching them with on shaky legs.

Danny leans forward, but doesn’t stand. “What’s up, buddy?”

“I got water on it,” Charlie mumbles, tilting his head back to display the cut on his chin. “It really stings.”

“Mm. That’s ‘cause there’s salt, in seawater. You’re okay. Go rinse off in the sink.” Charlie nods, still pouting a little, and heads back to the house.

Danny watches like he wants to follow, but doesn’t. Instead he sinks back in his chair and reaches blindly for his bottle, not seeming to notice when he grabs and drinks from Steve’s instead. “By the way, did you see that? Did you see me not overreact? That was me, not overreacting.”

“I know. Very impressive.”

“Ma used to fuss so bad when I got hurt, it made it ten times worse.”

“I think you struck a good balance,” Steve replies, and doesn’t say what he’s thinking about how it’s just as bad when parents veer the opposite way.

“Mm. Tell me not to go check on him.”

“I’ll go.” Steve stands. “Then it’s not you fussin’.”

Part of him thinks that Charlie just got distracted, like kids his age do: that he’s not upset, just blowing soap bubbles or making faces in the mirror. But another part of him isn’t so sure. He’s been sewn up on more occasions than he can count by now, but he can still remember the unique disquiet of having stitches for the first time.

So he’s not at all surprised, when he gets to the bathroom. Not at all surprised to find Charlie staring, transfixed, at his own reflection, with fat, wobbly tears rolling slowly down his cheeks.

“Hey, kiddo.”

Charlie flinches a little, but doesn’t wipe his eyes. Steve takes that as a good sign. He slips through the doorway, and leans against the sink. “Does your chin hurt?”

The reply is murmured, unintelligible, and Steve smiles. “Does it hurt, or is it just a little scary?”

Charlie hangs his head a little, and sucks back some snot. “It’s just a little scary,” he whispers, to the floor.

“Okay. Hey, that’s normal, okay? Totally normal, that it’s scary.”

“It’s normal?”

“Oh, yeah. When I was about your age, I needed stitches on my leg. I remember being so scared.”

“Did you cry?”

“_Definitely_, I cried. Hey, look—” And Steve turns, and gets his foot up on the edge of the counter. “It was right here, and you can’t even see it now. Can you see it?”

“I can’t see it,” Charlie mumbles. Then something impish flickers in his eyes. “But maybe just ‘cause you’re so hairy.”

“So hairy? So hairy—you think you’re funny, huh?”

Charlie does, evidently, because he giggles. Steve dampens a hand towel, and wipes the boy’s face clean. “You feel a little better, now?”

“A little bit.”

“Okay. How about we go get another juice box, and then maybe we can look for seashells? We don’t have to go in the waves anymore, today.”

Charlie nods. His nose is still running, but there’s not the slightest hint of sadness in his smile.

And even though he doesn’t need to—even though Charlie’s okay now, and his legs were never hurt to begin with—Steve scoops his nephew up in his arms, and carries him through the doorway.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> CROSS YOUR FINGERS FOR ME TO HAVE A SNOW DAY TOMORROW, PLEASE! (The next three chapters of this are all more than half done!)


	12. "Don't Move" (Jerry)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Jerry, listen to me.” In Steve’s voice there’s compassion, but military stoicism, too. “You’re on a trip wire. We’ll figure this out, we’ll get you off of there. But I need you to stay _completely_ still.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just a heads up that this gets a bit dark, including Jerry thinking about his dad's death.

Dull yellow light plays off the puddles on the floor, the droplets on the walls. It might almost be easier to see in the dark. The watery reflections are downright disorienting, especially combined with the heavy scent of mold, and Jerry thinks—not for the first time—that he shouldn’t be here.

Not because he wants to give up. Just because, this whole fieldwork thing? He’s not always the best at it.

But now’s not the time. So Jerry swallows it back; hopes vaguely that there’s not rats down there with them. The passageway’s got to be close. And come on, this is some real Dr. Jones stuff right here—he should be eating this up! Creepy basements and hidden tunnels, and—

“Don’t move!”

The words, from Steve, startle him into stillness. Then he startles a second time, realizing that the command probably wasn’t for him, that there’s probably somebody else down there with them—

“Jerry.” Steve’s voice is calmer, now. “Don’t move.”

Oh. Steve was talking to him, then. Why shouldn’t he move—is there a spiderweb, or something?

Even as his mind supplies this possibility, he knows it’s not the case.

Steve’s flashlight clicks on, supplementing the two sickly lightbulbs; he moves the beam across the floor, directly over Jerry’s feet. Something unexpected casts a razor-thin shadow there.

“Jerry, listen to me.” In Steve’s voice there’s compassion, but military stoicism, too. “You’re on a trip wire. We’ll figure this out, we’ll get you off of there. But I need you to stay _completely_ still.”

Which is easier said than done, considering he’s mid-step, standing on one leg.

Jerry takes a deep breath in, then blows it out. “Commander. I need to move my right foot.”

“I know it’s tough, man. But you can’t. I don’t have eyes on the actual trigger.”

“I have to put my other foot down.” He’s actually pretty impressed by the steadiness of his own voice. “I know myself; I know what I’m physically capable of. I can’t stand on one leg for more than a minute or two. I’m gonna lose my balance, and then I’ll fall. But if I put it at down at least it’s a controlled motion.”

Steve’s response doesn’t come for a few seconds. The delay is enough time for Jerry to process the true extent of the shit he’s in.

His left ankle is starting to wobble.

“Okay.” Steve takes a break from searching the walls, and trains his flashlight back on Jerry’s feet. “Okay. Can you see the wire?”

“Yeah.”

“Don’t let your other foot touch it.”

“That—sounds like pretty solid advice.”

“And try not to shift any weight off the wire, either. You’re just balancing, with your other foot. Just keeping your balance. Okay?”

“Okay.” Suddenly he’s sweating, as drippy as the walls, and he wonders if Steve has noticed.

Creepy basements and hidden tunnels and _booby-traps_. If he dies now, at least he dies like Indy.

Jerry puts his foot down.

Steve holds his breath an extra few beats; Jerry can hear it, when he finally exhales.

“Okay. Okay, Jerry. We’re gonna get you out of here.”

“Can you see the device?”

“No. Listen. I got no reception. I need to go upstairs, and call for backup. Are you okay down here, for a minute?”

“Okay, like, okay with standing on a trip wire? Or okay, like, with being left alone in the dark?” Jerry swallows; it goes down rough. “’cause, neither, honestly.”

“I’ll be back in a minute.”

“I guess I shouldn’t take my flashlight out, huh?”

“Unknown wire, unknown sensitivity. Until we’re sure, you don’t move _at all_, Jer. You hear me?”

“Hear you,” Jerry whispers. And then Steve’s gone.

It’s two or three minutes before Steve comes back, and another twenty or so before the bomb squad arrives. But it takes far less time for them to confirm what Jerry already suspected.

The wire runs to the base of the bricks—but it doesn’t continue upwards.

The explosives are inside the wall.

With complicated tools, and careful movements, they determine the exact location. They hypothesize, about the bomb’s type. Everybody seems content in the knowledge that it won’t go off as long as Jerry keeps still—ignoring the reality of how difficult it actually is to keep perfectly still.

Especially when you’re absolutely fucking terrified.

So far Jerry’s managed not to start shaking. The tradeoff, it seems, is that he’s full-on drenched in an itchy, nauseous sweat.

He tries not to, but he thinks about tomorrow. Pokes at the future like a little kid waiting for a coin to land, when both heads and tails seem perfectly (im)probable.

It feels ridiculous, to think he might not make it through this.

It feels equally ridiculous to assume that he will.

“Jerry.”

Steve hasn’t gone. Steve isn’t even geared up, like the others in the room. He’s standing a few steps away, arms folded over his chest, face neutral. “Jerry, bring yourself back. I mean it.”

“You should go,” Jerry gets out. “You should really go.”

“I’m not going anywhere. I’m staying with you, so you stay with me, okay?”

Jerry forces himself to take a deep, slow breath. “Okay. Okay.”

“Movie night tomorrow. What’re we watching?”

“’s your turn to pick.”

“Yeah, an’ I’m askin’ for suggestions. What movie?”

Jerry tries to keep his eyes on Steve, tries to reach out for the hand that his commander is metaphorically offering him. “_The Blob_,” he blurts, and Steve grins.

“Okay. Okay. I’ve never seen it.”

“Song came on my shuffle a few days ago, and—an’ I’ve been wanting to watch it ever since.”

“There’s a song?”

“Um. _It—creeps, and leaps, and glides, and slides, across the floor—right through the door—and all around the wall—”_

“That’s not real.”

“Oh, it’s real. It’s on my Halloween playlist.”

“So when you say it came on your shuffle, you really mean that you were listening to your Halloween playlist, in April.”

“Caught me,” Jerry huffs.

Steve must feel his metaphorical hand slipping away, because he inches closer. “Great. _The Blob_. Will I like it?”

“The,” Jerry starts, then has to clear his throat. “The main guy’s name is Steve.”

“I like it already.”

“And he was played by a Steve. Steve McQueen.”

“Okay, I love it. I’m gonna love it, buddy. Hey—hey, let’s do Halloween in April for real, okay? We’ll get some little chocolate bars. And make those Halloween cocktails you like.”

Steve’s words are genuine. The operative part of Jerry’s brain knows this—but the creeping, fatalistic voice at the back of his mind says differently. Says that Steve doesn’t really want any of that. That Steve’s agreeing to anything, because he knows Jerry will die, and he won’t have to go through with it.

His eyes are watering. He wishes like hell he could reach up and wipe them.

“Still with me, brother?” Steve’s voice is softer now.

“Yeah,” Jerry coughs. “Yeah. ’m with you.”

“Good. Stay with me. You’re doing great; you’re doing so well.”

“Steve, if I—”

He sees on Steve’s face, in rapid succession: the urge to shut the conversation down, then the understanding of how much Jerry needs to say it. “It’s okay, Jer.”

“If I die, I just—I just—please don’t toss all my research, okay? Eric—Eric’s met some of my CT buddies. He’ll help you get in touch with them, just hand it over to them, okay?”

“Okay.”

Tiny tears are leaking down his face now, though it honestly, _honestly_ doesn’t feel like crying. More like overflowing. But he can’t do anything about it, and so he’s glad—for more reasons than just the obvious—that the bomb squad guys are completely enthralled in their work.

“Okay. That was all I needed to say.” It wasn’t, but if he goes any further—says he wants the entirety of _Blue Hawaii_ played at his wake, or that he wants to be buried next to his dad—he’ll break. He will fall the fuck apart, and that is just not allowed to happen. “Go back to taking my mind off it, please.”

So Steve starts talking to him again—just in time for the squad guys to start chiseling at the mortar between the first two bricks.

It’s slow. It has to be. Jerry tries to look at Steve, tries to focus on his steady smile and his pretty eyes.

Tries not to notice that the mortar is coming out in pieces as small as sand.

He can’t stand still forever.

Can he stand still long enough?

He read somewhere, that after you medically die, there’s still enough energy in your brain for a few more moments of thought. After you die, you literally know that you’re dead. And so maybe the last thing you think, the last moment you ever get to have, is lying there, actually knowing that you’re gone. And what would it be like, to know that and not even be able to scream? To not be able to escape the knowledge, whatsoever?

Is that what it’s like, if you die in an explosion? Or would it just—would it just end, instead? Maybe that moment of consciousness is reserved for calmer deaths, normal deaths. Heart-attack deaths, cancer deaths.

Did his dad have that moment? Did his dad have to lie there and know he was dead and not be able to scream about it?

“_Jerry Ortega_.”

Jerry’s eyes fly open. He gets the feeling that Steve’s said his name a couple of times by now.

There’s about two dozen bricks out of the wall by now, and how fucking long was he stuck in his own head?

And then, after lasting for so long, Jerry starts to tremble.

“Talk to me,” Steve’s saying. “You space out on me when this is one-sided, man.”

“W-what,” Jerry grinds out, then clears his throat. “What should I t-talk about?”

“Um. Something happy. Talk to me about Halloween.”

“Halloween?”

“Top movies. Go.”

Suddenly Jerry forgets every movie he’s ever seen, or heard of.

“I can’t—I d-don’t know.”

“Okay. That’s all right. Only now I’m thinking of Halloween, because you got that weird song stuck in my head. Man—how’d it go again?”

Jerry actually manages a bit of a chuckle, at the eager expression on Steve’s face. “I—I get what you’re doing, commander. And thanks. B-but if I die—if something g-goes wrong right this sec-cond—I am _not_ gonna die singing the Blob song.”

Steve laughs, short and sharp. “Okay. I can’t even argue with that, man. Let’s think of something else.”

“That’s g-gonna be you,” Jerry stammers. “I can’t—I can’t think, commander. I d-don’t think I’m keepin’ it together.”

“You’re doing fine. What’s your favorite Elvis song?”

“Um.” Jerry’s eyes are closing again.

“Too much thinking? Okay. What’s the first Elvis song you ever sang for an audience?”

Well, that he knows the answer to. “T-_true Love Travels on a Gravel Road_.”

“I’ve never heard of that one. Was it a single?”

“I—don’t think so? M-maybe. I—”

“Hey.”

Jerry opens his eyes. Steve’s moved a little closer, and is looking right at him, like there’s nothing else worth noticing in the rest of the world.

“Sing it for me.”

Jerry glances towards the bomb squad.

“Man,” Steve laughs, “believe me. I know these guys’ job. You’re prob’ly one of the calmest people they’ve ever rescued. Nobody’s gonna think twice about it, I promise.”

Steve pats his chest, like he’s swearing on his heart. And Jerry licks his lips. Thinks about hearing that song for the first time; having next-to-no idea what it meant, and even less how it felt.

“It’s okay,” Steve murmurs. “Gotta pass this time somehow, man.”

So Jerry closes his eyes again—but this time, holds on to Steve’s face. And begins.

“_How many girls choose cotton dress worlds, when they could have satins and lace—and stand by her man, never once letting shade touch her face? How many hearts could live through all the winters we've known, and still not be cold? True love travels on a gravel road_—”

He’s vaguely aware that his voice has stopped shaking, and vaguely aware, since his eyes are slightly open by now, that Steve is looking on, still smiling. Not laughing, honestly listening.

If he dies now, he dies singing love songs to Steve McGarrett. So.

Worse ways to go.

“_Love is a stranger and hearts are in danger, all through streets paved with gold—for true love travels on a gravel road, yeah, true love travels on a gravel road—true love travels on a gravel road—_”

Jerry opens his eyes, fully.

Steve’s not really smiling anymore, but there’s a mild, pleasant look on his face that seems out-of-place yet entirely genuine. Like Jerry’s singing has actually cheered him up.

“Was that—?” Jerry clears his throat. “That wasn’t as awkward as I was expecting.”

“No, man. That was awesome.” Steve chuckles. “I remember, the first time I heard you sing, it was an Elvis song. To be honest, man, none of us saw it comin’. I think Lou’s mouth was actually hanging open.”

“I guess I don’t mind, being unexpected.”

“Amen, brother. C’mon. Don’t stop.”

So Jerry doesn’t. Down there, in that moldy basement, one foot pressing on the wire that might ultimately end his life—he puts on a private concert, because what else can he do? He sings song after song. The ones that are his favorites, and the ones that show off his voice, and the ones that remind him of Steve.

Steve, who just listens. Who stands there and risks maybe dying just to flash him a smile now and then.

Jerry’s only just started on _Can’t Help Falling in Love_, when an unfamiliar voice interrupts.

“Commander McGarrett? Mr. Ortega?”

It’s one of the squad guys, of course.

Jerry falls silent. Steve snaps back into SEAL mode, and turns to face the man addressing them. “Talk to me.”

“This is it,” the man says, from within his face-obscuring mask.

All the hard-won calm has drained from Jerry, and he stands there on the detonator and fights not to burst into tears. But it’s a fight he wins. He lifts his chin, because squaring his shoulders would entail too much movement.

The man continues. “Commander, I’m obligated to recommend that you leave the area.”

“Understood,” Steve replies. “But I’ll be staying.” He’s standing taller now, as well, and it occurs to Jerry that there’s a very real possibility that they’re going to die together.

They lock eyes.

Jerry smiles, but Steve only nods. And for a moment there’s nobody else in the world.

Then the line goes slack under Jerry’s foot.

“We’re clear!”

Steve shouts, dragging fingers through his hair. There’s celebration, and commotion, and in all of it Jerry doesn’t move.

“Jerry?”

Steve steps forward, closer than he’s come these past few hours—he touches a hand to Jerry’s elbow, and it’s maybe the gentlest thing Jerry’s ever felt.

“It’s over, Jer. The bomb’s disabled.”

Jerry says nothing; his mouth has stopped working.

“Jerry, listen to me. You’re safe now. This was awful, but it’s over. Can you hear me? You can move now. C’mon. C’mon.”

For an untold length of time now, Jerry’s right foot has only been keeping him balanced; all his weight has been on his left foot, which has long since stopped hurting.

Steve puts both hands on his shoulders. Behind him, he can hear the bomb squad clearing away, making space for the human fallout.

He lets his right foot press the ground.

Then everything goes grey.

“Don’t go down, don’t go down.” And indeed, strong arms keep him from doing so. “I’m tellin’ you from experience, man, that’s not the way. We’ll just lean. We’re gonna lean against the wall.”

He doesn’t care. He can’t. There’s no agency to these first, clumsy motions; all there is, is Steve, shepherding him to the wall.

Jerry presses his palms against the brick and sobs, teeth clenching like metal on metal.

“Hey, hey, it’s okay. You’re okay, I gotcha.”

“_Ngh_.” He’s not crying; he’s in _agony_. “’s my _stomach_, man.”

“Okay,” Steve soothes, accepting this just as easily.

Jerry moans. Even with his eyes closed, the world is tunneling. He’s maybe never felt sicker.

“Look, if you gotta toss ‘em, I won’t tell a soul.”

He’s got no energy left to lie, so he doesn’t. “Tha’s not the end I’m worried about.”

“Ah.” There’s a pause, then a breath of laughter.

“Don’t laugh at me,” Jerry grunts—then, out of nowhere, feels himself laughing too. “Don’t laugh. Oh my god, ‘m gonna shit myself, commander.”

“No, you’re not.”

“I am. ‘s like ‘m bein’ ripped open.”

“Just breathe,” Steve advises, softer now. His hands skim over Jerry’s arms as he adjusts his grip, holds Jerry around the chest. “It’ll pass, I promise.”

And it does. Before long, the urgency dissipates and the pain fades to something manageable. And Jerry closes his eyes and sags forward.

“What’s happening to me?” he mutters, knowing Steve’s close enough to hear. “I feel like I’m—liquifying.”

“You held every muscle in your body rigid for almost four hours. There are physical consequences to that. Not to _mention_ the psychological.”

“Oh,” Jerry breathes. “’t makes sense.”

“The worst is over. But it wouldn’t surprise me if you’re still shaky for a few days, even.”

“Okay.”

“But listen to me: you did a good job, okay? Let alone civilians, I know _sailors_ who wouldn’t’ve lasted that long without panicking.”

Jerry’s not entirely sure that he believes that. But it helps, that Steve’s going out of his way to make him feel less pathetic—especially because of what he asks next.

“You think you’re okay to walk yet?”

Jerry exhales slowly. “No.”

“All right, man. There’s no rush. Hey, you wanna lean on me instead?”

It is literally possible that he’s never wanted anything more.

“I’ll knock you over,” Jerry whispers. “When I say I’m leanin’ on this wall—I’m really leanin’.”

“That’s okay. C’mon, don’t underestimate me.” And Jerry can hear the smirk in Steve’s voice, as he plays a card he knows Jerry will have to respond to.

So he pushes clumsily away from the wall. Lets Steve catch him by the arms; drapes his weight against Steve’s body and feels the man support him, without struggle.

“It’s over,” Steve murmurs, hugging him tightly. “Jerry, you’re safe. It’s over.”

So Jerry closes his eyes. For a few minutes he just lets himself feel Steve’s body against his, strong and sturdy. Steve’s arms, holding him, gently.

It’s a solid few minutes, before Jerry opens his eyes again. “I really didn’t think I was gonna walk away from that one,” he rasps.

“Mm.” Steve jostles him, very slightly. “Would it be funny or mean to point out that it was more of a—staggering away?”

Being in Steve’s arms isn’t just supportive, it’s soothing, and little by little he can feel himself leveling out. He has the energy, now, to laugh for real. “Think it’d be both. But hey, I didn’t shit myself.”

“I definitely prefer days I don’t shit myself.”

Steve’s letting go a bit, letting him stand on his own now, and Jerry can’t say he’s happy about that, but at least he’s staying upright. The world’s leveling out. Bit by bit, it’s all normalizing, and he’s no longer a guy who very likely might die today.

Eventually his feet are back under him.

Enough to remember that they weren’t in the basement for fun.

“So—booby traps, means—means this’s def’nitely the righ’ place—”

“Lou and Danny have it handled,” Steve interrupts, firmly. “Listen to me. I’m gonna drive you home. And you’re gonna take a shower, have a glass of wine, and go to bed. Okay?”

“Yeah,” Jerry whispers. That all sounds so fucking magnificent that it puts the lump back in his throat.

“I’ll stay if you want,” Steve continues. “Or go if you want. Whatever makes you most comfortable. You’re gonna have a lot to work through tonight; the good news is, you’re here to work through it.”

“Yeah.” This time, it comes out more like a sob.

“Come on,” Steve coaxes, gently; he lets go of Jerry’s arms, but keeps one guiding hand on his back. Jerry sucks down a breath, and takes what feels like his first step ever.

“Few more yards, then a staircase,” Steve narrates. “You’re doin’ great, Jer. Gonna be home before you know it. Come on.”

At the bottom of the staircase, the air sweetens. There must be a door open, at the top somewhere, because a breeze makes its way down to them, carrying warmth and the smell of ocean water. Jerry sways, and Steve takes him by the arm once again.

“Up the stairs, then maybe twenty yards to the truck. But if you need me to call a bus, it’s okay. I mean that.”

“No bus,” Jerry whispers, and gets one foot on the first stair. “’ll be all righ’.”

“Okay. Hey, hold the handrail, Jer. You’re doin’ great. You did amazing.”

Jerry laughs, and with it comes the energy to haul himself fully onto the stairs. “You know I—I didn’t do anything, right? Objectively?”

“Well, it still looked impressive to me,” Steve replies.

And with this comes enough energy for Jerry to get himself up the whole staircase, and into the warm twilight beyond.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter, dark as it was, made me happy :) Because I've been thinking it silly, starting a challenge I knew I'd never finish on time. BUT. A lot of the chapters so far have been spruced-up/modified versions of snippets I'd already written, or else original bits that I wasn't super fond of. This one, however, is completely original, inspired total by Whumptober, and I happen to think it's pretty good :) So silly as it may have been to take this challenge, I think it was worth it for a piece like this to have come out of it!
> 
> Hope you guys enjoyed :)


	13. Adrenaline (Jerry)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jerry brings Susanna home; Eric and the others bring Jerry home. Missing scene for 9x05.

He can feel the moment, the actual instant, that the hours-long flood of adrenaline dissipates.

“Jerry.” Crystal’s voice cuts through the ringing in his ears. “You okay?”

Jerry blinks. Thinks about replying, but his mouth has stopped obeying commands.

“You with me, sweetheart?” Crystal murmurs, stepping closer; and Jerry can tell that Eric and Ano have tuned in as well. And then Eric’s hand is on his elbow—

“He should prob’ly put his head between his knees or somethin’—”

“Too late,” Ano’s voice is saying—

And then something’s happening that Jerry is very much not used to: other people are moving his body for him, and damn, all right, he didn’t realize his friends were that strong— and they settle him in a way that makes the blood flow back into his head, which hurts, and which leaves his arms and legs limp and useless, but at least he mostly— mostly!!— doesn’t faint—

Mostly.

Sooner or later the world settles out again; Jerry peels his eyes open and takes stock. He’s flat on his back. On the ground, it seems, though he thinks he can feel fabric between his head and the actual dirt; he can also feel his legs propped up on something warm and probably human. He dares to look around, just a little.

Yeah, his legs are resting, knees bent, in Crystal’s lap; and it’s her flannel shirt, too, that seems to be under him.

He tries to greet her, though all he gets out is a wordless croak.

“Hey, Jer,” she soothes, brushing hair from his forehead. And suddenly he remembers that even though she was one of one of the meaner kids in camp, she was also the one that the first years went to if they had a nightmare and were too shy to tell the counselors.

“_Gg_,” Jerry gets out, blinking fast, “Gordie?”

“He’s— okay. Noelani texted Eric a minute ago. They got him into surgery already, and she says the damage doesn’t look too bad.”

“Mm. ‘kay.” His tongue still feels a little too thick, but he manages to clear his throat, and that helps. “What happened t’me?”

“You passed out, babe,” Crystal tells him, sounding concerned but also vaguely amused. “Pretty much as soon as all the cops left. You jus’ sorta—”

She makes a clicking noise with her tongue, and Jerry winces. “Which is, by the way, completely understandable,” Crystal adds, stroking over his face again. “We’ve all been through the goddamn ringer tonight, but you took the brunt of it.”

“Gordie took the brunt of it,” Jerry grumbles. With slow, clumsy movements he gets himself upright, though a second later he has to put his head on Crystal’s shoulder and close his eyes. “Crys?”

“Mm?”

“Kinda think I might hurl.”

“I mean, I’d forgive you, but I’d prefer you didn’t.”

He doesn’t. But his head’s still spinning bad enough that he stays put, listening to Crystal breathing, listening to Eric and Ano presumably loading up the car in the background.

Suddenly he’s very, very aware of all he’s done today. Dug a hole deeper than his own height, ran for longer than he’s run in twenty years, watched a good friend get his throat slashed, and also sort of walked through fire at one point.

And found Susanna.

He found Susanna.

“Hey, it’s okay, baby, you’re okay.” Warm fingers touch his skin, brushing away the tears that come crawling down his face. “It’s a lot. It’s— it’s a lot more, than a lot.”

“I found her,” he whispers, hiding against Crystal’s skinny shoulder. “I freaking found her, man.”

“You did amazing,” Crystal murmurs, hugging Jerry close; he nuzzles against her, full intentions of breaking down and crying over all of it. But the tears have sort of just stopped. Face still crumpled, lungs still hitching, Jerry curls against his friend and tries to feel nothing but her steadiness, her warmth, her familiar presence.

Not too much later, there’s a hand on his back. He pulls away to see Ano crouching before him, smiling weakly. “Car’s loaded. Think you can stand up?”

Jerry nods, and peels himself away from Crystal’s side; she, Ano, and Eric, all scramble to help him to his feet. He manages without them. Staggers to the car, gets his fingers around the handle—then can’t go any further. He lets go, turns back to the woods.

“Jerry?” Crystal prompts, gently.

“She’s still out there.” The police have set a border, but elected not to excavate until the morning. “Feels wrong to leave her.”

“Sweetheart.” Crystal’s smile is sad. “You’ve never left her. You’re the only person that never did.”

“You’re bringing her home,” Ano adds. “Let _us_ bring _you_ home.”

“Also, you really need a shower.” Eric squeezes his arm as he speaks; Jerry laughs, a little brokenly. “I mean, we’ve all needed a shower since yesterday, but then you rolled around in mud. And caught on fire.”

Which kindly leaves out the mention of the stress-sweat he’s also drenched in.

Eric hasn’t let go of his arm. And Jerry’s nose stings, like maybe part of him wants to cry some more, but the rest of him is just too tired. “Okay,” he murmurs. “Okay.”

“’kay. You wanna sit in the back with me?”

Jerry frowns. Tries to focus, to think of how many cars they’ve got to drive back, and if Eric’s offer makes sense, logistically—but he can’t. Can’t hold any real thought in his mind, let alone something so objectively unimportant.

“Yeah,” he whispers. And lets Eric get him in the car, and buckle him up, and hold his hand.

The engine starts. Someone—Eric—squeezes his fingers, and someone else passes him a bottle of water and quietly coaxes him to drink.

And Jerry lets go. Lets Eric and Crystal and Ano figure out the rest.

He’s finished his part. In a way it feels like he’s finished the only real task God ever gave him.

That’s reason enough to be tired. Reason enough to slouch forward and prop his head on the passenger’s seat headrest and lay there, passively, while Eric lets go of his hand to instead start rubbing his back, up and down, up and down, up and down—

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> "Sorry" for the double Jerry. Next chapter will be some nice old-fashioned Steve angst/McDanno H/C :)


	14. Tear-stained (Steve)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Deb's gone. Danny's there. Tag to 6x12.

Danny reads the message twice. Not because he thinks he’s misunderstood, not even because it’s unexpected. Just because—well. Shit.

_Deb died a little while ago. We’re at the house, we did not have to go to the hospital_

Again: shit.

_On my way_, Danny replies. _Fifteen minutes out_

For a moment he thinks that he should have said more, should have said he’s sorry. But the time will come for that.

Less than a minute later, his phone buzzes twice, back-to-back.

_Text when you get here_

_Probably going to get upset when I see you, rather do that outside_

And that’s when Danny’s stomach would have tied itself in knots, if it weren’t a tangled mass of them already.

Danny turns fifteen minutes into twelve. Veering into the driveway, though, he feels a thrill of—something, that makes him pause for a moment, before he sends his text.

Deb’s gone. And Danny wants to scream, wants to shriek to the universe, _how hard is it for Steve to catch a break?!,_ but instead he just hauls himself out of his car and waits.

The front door opens, then closes gently.

Steve comes down the drive in long, stiff strides, lip caught between his teeth, forehead creased between his eyebrows. Danny meets him halfway. Wraps his arms around Steve’s waist and hugs with as much love as he can muster, while Steve buries his face in Danny’s shoulder and cries.

“I know,” Danny murmurs, his own doubts primly silenced. “I know, babe, I’m so sorry.” He rubs a thumb across the fabric of Steve’s T-shirt while Steve hitches with choked-back sobs, burrowing ever further into the security of Danny’s embrace.

“Shit, man,” Steve gets out, hiccupping a little. “I knew I was gonna— lose it, when I saw you, and I didn’t wanna d-do that in— in front of Joanie— and Mare—”

“I know, I know, hey, it’s just us, okay? You’re okay.”

There’s a nod against his shoulder, and then, for a little while, there’s just tears.

When Steve calms, Danny walks him back to the Camaro. Steve leans against it—and against Danny, too—placid and sniffling.

“I jus’ went up— to get her for breakfast.” His voice is small, and sounds like it’s scraping by a lump the size of a fist. “She smiled at me. She waved her hand, just a little— she knew— that I was there? So I’m— I’m really glad for that— she knew she wasn’t alone. I sat n-next to her and I— just kinda touched her hair and— and she just went, man. It was s-so peaceful—”

Steve can’t go on. Danny holds him while he rides out a second jag, softer than the first but much, much longer. Even once he seems finished, he nuzzles Danny’s shoulder for another minute before finally pulling away.

“I got your shirt wet,” Steve mumbles, thumbing clumsily at the temporary stains. “I know you don’t care, but.”

“I don’t even a little bit care, babe,” Danny promises. “You needed it; how could you not need it, today?”

Steve leans heavily against the car and tilts his head back, like he can’t quite breathe otherwise. “Okay. Okay. Just gimme a minute. I’m good to go back in in a minute.”

“It’s not a rush.”

“Mary’s takin’ it really hard,” Steve says, and wipes his nose. “She just calmed down, an’ I knew if she saw me cryin’ she’d start up again.”

“I know. Hey, we’ll stay out here ‘til you’re ready, huh?”

Steve nods, and sighs unhappily. Danny lets go of him, just for a moment. The guy doesn’t cry often, but when he does, he’s pretty much like anyone else: once it’s over he wants tissues and something to drink, and company, though that one goes without saying.

Danny tugs open the car door and rummages inside. He finds a few clean napkins, which he passes over wordlessly; then, while Steve blows his nose like a goddamn trumpet, he finds a not-too-old, half-empty water bottle. He hands this over too. Stares at his shoes while Steve gulps it down, making no comment about the lukewarmth, or how they’d both been trying to do better with single-use plastics.

Danny, in turn, makes no comment when Steve passes back the empty bottle. Just shakes his head, feeling genuine fondness, and chucks it back into his car. “How you doin’?”

“I’m okay,” Steve murmurs. “I’m okay.”

“You’re not, and don’t be stupid.”

“No, ‘m not. But I am for now. We should go in for a bit.” Steve takes a steady breath, and Danny watches the tangible transformation as he reigns himself back in.

That control doesn’t falter, not once. Not for long hours of logistics, and phone calls, and Mary crying.

There’s sadness in Steve’s eyes. Even at his most stoic, he’s not inhuman, not emotionless. But none of it slips out, not even a bit.

Not until finally, _finally_, the sun begins to set; Danny puts Joanie to bed while Steve calms Mary down again. Then not too much later they get Mary to bed, too.

Back in the living room, Steve sinks onto the couch, and again there’s a palpable shift as he lets his defenses unfurl. Danny settles beside him.

“You okay?”

“Yeah.”

“I’m serious.”

“Mm.” Steve closes his eyes, folds slightly forward. “My stomach’s kind of upset.”

“You want anything for it?”

“Nah.”

“You don’t want peppermint tea?”

His eyes open, but they don’t focus.

“Yes? That’s a yes,” Danny sighs, pushing to his feet. He expects a protest, to be honest, but all that comes is a muttered thanks.

A few minutes later Danny returns, tea in hand. Steve’s curled up in the corner of the couch now, and he blinks sluggishly upwards. Danny gives him the mug. Then he settles, as close as he can without moving Steve’s legs, and lays a hand on his knee. “Drink your tea, wash your face, and go to bed. Even if you don’t sleep, it’ll feel good, lyin’ down.”

Steve nods, sipping tentatively.

“Is there anything else I can get you?” The urge to offer physical items has got to be a parental thing, Danny muses. Because he knows damn well that blankets or ice cream or anything else that he can offer won’t really help at all—but he can’t stop himself.

“Nah,” Steve murmurs. “You c’n head out, if you want.”

“Well, if that’s you asking for privacy, I will. But if it’s not—I figured I’d stay a little longer.”

A faint smile flits over Steve’s mouth. He puts his legs down, lets Danny get closer; then he leans against Danny’s shoulder, heavy and slightly too warm.

Danny squeezes Steve’s knee, and for a few minutes, they only sit there.

“Might sleep on the lanai,” Steve mutters, eventually. “Not ‘cause—”

He trails off, but Danny understands. It’s not because Deb died in Steve’s bed less than twelve hours ago; though, if it were, that would be okay.

Danny rolls his eyes, and pulls a face. “Because you’re a freaking jungle man, and you’d live outdoors if you could?”

“There’s nothing stopping me, technically.”

“No. No. This is Hawaii, and I won’t argue with you sleeping under the stars once in a while. But I will not abide you living in a cave. If you live in a cave, I will not visit you there.”

Steve laughs softly. Then he goes silent again, staring down at the surface of his tea.

Danny puts his hand back on Steve’s knee, unsure when he took it away. “Wanna tell me what you’re thinking?”

“Mm.” Which isn’t a _no_, it’s a _wait_. And indeed, he continues before too long. “They both died here. They were—not close. At all. And it just feels strange that they died, y’know. Five years but—only a few rooms apart.”

Danny’s stomach aches, with empathy but also perfect fondness. He catches himself only an instant before he starts soothing aloud. “Sounds to me like she used her time here pretty good.”

Steve nods.

Danny plucks the cooling tea from his hands. “Get ready for bed, please. You’re so tired, I’m gettin’ tired just lookin’ at you.”

“Okay.”

“Okay. I’ll meet you up there, I’ll sit up with you for a little while.”

Another nod, then Steve sags, physically. Danny wants to put him to bed, then and there; but Steve’s particular psychology means he’ll feel worse than ever if he falls asleep without having brushed his teeth.

So Danny nudges him, lightly.

“Move. Five minutes from now, you’ll be happy you did it now.”

“Wow. You’re really pullin’ out the Danno moves, here.”

And Danny does not—he does _not_—follow that train of thought all the way out to, _I don’t mind parenting you, on occasion, if it makes you feel better_. He stops far short of that, entirely on purpose.

“Go,” he says, instead, shooing Steve off the couch.

And Steve smiles, and sighs, and pushes himself to his feet.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The show pretty much glossed over Deb's death, but I like to think (even if it's slightly unlikely) that Steve let himself have a normal grieving process for her very normal death. Regardless, I've been meaning to do a tag for this episode for a while :)


	15. Scars (Danny)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Steve's not the only one with scars from the transplant. Coda to 6x25 (featuring Chin!)

The doctors release Danny from the hospital with relatively loose stipulations: no driving until he’s off the pain meds, no exercise or work for three weeks at a _minimum_.

The team’s provisions aren’t half so lax. They’re forthcoming about their intentions to check in regularly, and demand that at least one of them be given a key to Danny’s house, in case these check-ins fail.

Danny gives Chin a key, with relatively little fuss. Maybe he thinks Chin won’t use it; but if he does, he’s about to be proven wrong.

Chin’s not a fatalist by nature. He’s not picturing Danny dead in a pool of blood and/or whiskey; he _is_ picturing Danny in too much pain—be it physical or emotional—to answer his phone. And this warrants the use of the key.

He lets himself into an empty living room. Announces himself loudly and clearly as he wanders the downstairs, before finally heading up—and finding Danny in the master bathroom.

Not dead. Not even looking that much in pain, so much as slightly stoned on his pain meds.

“S’rry I didn’t shout,” he mumbles, eyeing Chin without a hint of surprise. “Kn’w you’d get ‘p here ‘ventually.”

Danny’s slumped on the edge of the bathtub, elbows on his knees and chin on his palms. Damp hair and a wet tub tell of a recent shower. He’s not butt naked (thankfully) but all he’s got on his boxers, and on his bare stomach Chin can see his surgical wound leaking sluggishly.

Chin crouches. “Can you tell me what happened?”

“Um. Dunno. Water too hot? ‘r standin’ too long ‘r s’mething? Just got—”

He trails off, with a weak, woozy gesture.

“Lightheaded?” Chin supplies. “Could be your pain meds. Or it could be simple fatigue. You had major surgery less than two weeks ago, you know.”

“I know.”

“Are you nauseous?”

Danny shakes his head.

“Any disorientation? Or greying out at all?”

“Nah. Jus’—hadda sit down.” Danny clears his throat. “It’s passing. I was ‘bout t’ try standing up, when I heard you.”

“Any idea how long it had been?”

“Dunno. Fifteen, twen’y?”

“Okay.” The lack of clothing would make a hug a bit too vulnerable, but Chin puts a hand to Danny’s bicep. “I think you just need to rest. Sound right?”

Danny nods, listing into the touch.

“Good. All right. But we need to dress that first, I think.”

“Mm. I was gonna.”

“You might as well let me help. Since I’m here. Can’t do it with you sitting, though—tape won’t lay flat.”

Danny lifts his head; his gaze is not-quite-focused, but clearer than it’s been so far. “Are you saying I have rolls?”

Chin laughs, so sharply that he startles himself. “I’m saying you have skin, and it moves when you move. For the record, I’m pretty sure that’s a good thing.”

“Mm. ‘m watchin’ you, Chin Ho Kelly.”

“So, it’s standing or lying flat. You have a preference?”

Danny sighs, then coughs a little. “F’r the record—for the record, I could do this standing, if I needed to.”

“I’m sure you could. But you don’t need to.”

“Then, lyin’ down, then. No, ‘m okay,” he adds, as Chin tries to help him to his feet. Instead he stands on his own, braced against the wall for a moment; then he seems to find his center.

“You need help to the bedroom?” Chin offers. Because standing is one thing, but walking is another thing entirely.

“Nah. Meet me there. Jus’—wash your hands, ‘kay?”

Smiling, Chin obeys; scrubs his hands for a solid minute. Then he goes into Danny’s bedroom, to find his friend sprawled like a starfish atop unmade covers.

There’s a pile of first aid stuff on Danny’s nightstand. It’s disorganized and full of empty bandage wrappers, but seems to have all that they’ll need. So, assuming that Danny will want to sleep as soon as he can, Chin gets to work.

The skin is already dry and mostly clean. Chin wipes what little blood there is with a Q-tip, then uses a fresh swab to spread antibiotic ointment along the incision. It’s a large cut, to be sure. A few segments are already scarring over, but most of it is scabbed or still looks fresh, including the part that’s bled a little.

Danny’s silent and still. As Chin opens some dressings and positions paper tape along their edges, he almost thinks that the man has fallen asleep already—until Danny’s stomach rises in a sigh.

“You know, his incision’s healing better?”

“Hm?”

“Steve’s,” Danny clarifies. “Doctor said, he’s healin’ up faster, externally. Doesn’t seem to make sense, right? But you know what that bastard does? He takes it _personally_. He takes it as a _compliment_.”

“Well, anyway, you’ll always match now.” The tape in place, the insides smeared with petroleum jelly, Chin starts positioning the bandages and pressing them down. “You know, when we were younger, Kono had one of those two-piece heart necklaces with her best friend—I suppose this is the more original idea—”

Beneath his fingers, on the other side of the medical tape, Danny’s belly spasms slightly; Chin lays the rest of the bandages before he looks up.

Danny’s got one hand to his eyes. What little can be seen of his face is flushed, and crumpled like old paper.

This is hardly the first time, since the crash. During earlier episodes, Chin had taken Danny into his arms and held him through the tears; for more recent jags, though, Danny’s preferred his privacy.

So Chin just pats his knee. “You want some space?”

Without taking his hand away, Danny nods. So Chin takes the litter from the redressing, and leaves, heart aching as he glimpses Danny rolling over to sob into his pillow.

In the bathroom, he throws the trash away and washes his hands again. Then he goes settles himself at the top of the stairs, ready to wait as long as Danny needs him to.

It doesn’t take long, considering. Only a few minutes later Chin hears a door creak open; then slow footsteps trudge towards his position. Danny flops onto the step beside him.

A quick glance upwards reveals dry, swollen eyes, and a ratty old t-shirt that looks like the kind you only wear when you need comfort.

Chin looks back at the stairs below. “You okay?”

“Fine,” Danny rasps.

“You’re fine?”

“Had worse.” He shrugs. “So have you. So you know. It—it scars over. This just hasn’t yet.”

And what is there to say to that?

“You wanna order some dinner? Maybe watch a game?”

“Think I‘m just goin’ to bed.”

“The dizziness might have been low blood sugar, come to think of it. You really should—”

“Chin,” Danny growls, and his body tenses. “I’m just going to go to bed.”

The sun’s not even beginning to set.

“All right,” Chin relents. “I’ll be over to check on you in the morning.”

They make to stand at the same time; Chin sits back down. Then, when Danny’s a few steps away, he gets to his feet.

He turns to see Danny, motionless, in an empty bit of hallway: in limbo between Chin and his bedroom, and facing the latter. Chin goes to his side, doesn’t force him to turn around.

Instead he just scrubs both hands over Danny’s shoulders, ending with a soft pinch at the tips of his clavicles. “You call me if you want to,” he intones, softly. “And if not, I’ll still see you in the morning.”

Danny nods.

Then Chin propels him towards his bedroom. Watches as he goes inside and closes the door; listens for a body falling, or objects breaking, or, more likely, Danny crying again.

He hears nothing.

He sits back down and waits for a few more minutes, anyway.


	16. Pinned Down (Steve and Danny)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Canon-divergent scene from 4x19. When Danny and Steve are trapped in the building collapse, it's Steve, and not Danny, pinned under the rubble.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Some dialogue taken directly, or modified, from the original episode :)

Dust scrapes the inside of his lungs and eyes; still Danny forces himself to breathe, and see. It’s agony. But considering that a building just came down around him, it’s really not as bad as it could have been.

Actually fuck that; it’s goddamn awful. Half a minute in, and he can feel the panic taking hold of him already. Sweat pricks every inch of his body; his pulse is twice what is should be, and only getting faster.

But he pushes it down.

Because the building that just came down around him? It came down around Steve, too.

The worst of the rubble has missed him, and after only one failed attempt Danny pushes to his feet. “Steve?” The goddamn dust makes it more of a rasp. Danny clears his throat; spits some particulate-laden mucus onto the ground. Then tries again.

“_Steve McGarrett_!”

“Danny?”

“Fuck,” Danny blurts, already scrambling. Spurred into action not only by the sound of Steve’s voice but by the utter weakness in it. He kicks aside some loose insulation—and then he sees him.

Or, to be more precise, he sees Steve’s hand.

“Fuck,” Danny whispers, again. And at the back of his head, the typical litany starts: the prayers of a long-lapsed Catholic, hazy on the words and on the faith, but beyond certain of the intentions.

Let Steve be okay. Let the debris just be trapping him, and not breaking bones or piercing organs.

Let the oxygen last. Let whatever structures are bracing this all, hold.

Let them not die, buried alive.

He’s at Steve’s side by now. And regardless of what he _should_ do first, what he _does_ do first is grip Steve’s hand for a long, long moment.

“Danny,” Steve croaks again, sounding way too happy for a man in his current situation. Danny can see more of him now, but he’s still mostly buried. It takes only seconds to shift what pieces he can—revealing a much larger issue.

A massive piece of concrete has Steve pinned by the leg.

Danny clears his throat, and nods at it. “You, uh. You got a little schmutz, there, buddy.”

“Yeah. Noticed that. You okay?”

“Am I okay?” He means to end the sarcasm there, but it spills out before he can stop it. “I’m in a confined space, and my partner’s got a bunch of concrete on top of him. Not the best situation for either of us.”

“Claustrophobia. I know, Danno. I meant, did you break anything? Hit your head?”

“No.” Danny squeezes his eyes briefly shut. “Trying not to think about how much asbestos I’m breathing in right now, but I did not hit my head. You think your leg’s broken?”

“Actually, no. But my side hurts. Think I broke some ribs.”

_Better than his leg_, Danny’s rational side pipes up. He’ll be able to walk. Now, if there’s an actual exit to walk out of—that’s another story.

Fresh sweat drips down Danny’s back. For a moment, finding Steve was enough to fend off the swelling tide of anxiety; but now it’s surging back worse than before.

He tries to channel it. Shoves against the concrete pinning Steve’s leg, but apparently this is just regular adrenaline, and not the lift-a-car-with-your-bare-hands kind.

“Guessin’ you can’t move at all,” Danny huffs, letting his arms drop.

“No. Listen, Danno: you’re gonna have to find something to leverage it off me. Like a length of rebar, or something—something you can wedge under there.”

In other words, he’s going to have to leave Steve’s side.

Danny’s lungs hitch, in a way that has nothing to do with the dust.

“I’m not goin’ anywhere, buddy,” Steve murmurs. Which, great: he’s picked up on Danny’s panic and is taking on the role of protector, even though he’s the one in worse shape. That’s great.

“Well, lucky for us it looks like Home Depot th-threw up in here,” Danny grumbles. He almost—almost—gets the whole way through without stammering. Serves him right for trying a _th_-word.

“Hey.” Steve’s eyes are clear through the dark and the dust. “Take a deep breath, okay?”

“No, that’s no good,” Danny admits. “It makes it worse.”

“Danny. You gotta get this off my leg, man. You gotta go find something.”

“I know.”

“You understand me?”

“All right.”

“Danny?”

Danny lifts his head.

“I trust you.”

And with that, Steve plays the one card he knows can’t lose.

Danny’s feet unstick and he lumbers away, on the hunt. It’s only a minute, maybe two, before he finds a metal pipe that seems suitable and drags it back to Steve’s position.

Steve, despite Danny’s fears, looks no different than he had before. He smiles, and dust highlights the creases besides his eyes and nose. “Looks good. How you holdin’ up?”

Danny opens his mouth, hoping to say something useful; what comes out instead is, “Carter’s behind the plate.”

“Huh?”

“Hernandez playing first. Backman playing second.”

“What are you doing?”

“Mets ’86 lineup. Helps me relax.” Danny giggles; the noise of it comes out high and skittery. It’s how he knows that shit is _bad_ bad, really. The prayers at the back of his mind stop, and the roster begins.

Steve giggles too. “Good. No, that’s good.”

Danny jams one end of the pipe beneath the concrete, and braces his own feet. “I dunno how long I’ll be able to hold this.”

“I’ll roll out quick. You can do this, Danno.”

“You too,” Danny grunts—and pushes against the piping with everything he’s got.

It shifts. Steve rolls onto his side; the instant he’s clear, Danny lets the concrete fall.

Between the panic and the strain, his vision tunnels badly. It’s a second or two before Danny sees the next complication, sticking out of Steve’s flank, encircled by bloody fabric.

“Oh,” he mutters. “That’s no good.”

“Sure doesn’t feel good,” Steve grunts, easing himself back. “C’n you see what it is?”

Danny strips his gloves, goes to his knees to examine the wound—and the metal still protruding from it. “Piece of rebar.”

“Okay. All right. We gotta remove it, and we gotta find a way to stop the bleeding.”

“Maybe don’t take it out?” Danny suggests—because he passed First Aid, thanks. Shit like this is supposed to stay in, until you’re safely at a hospital. But Steve grimaces.

“The real trouble would be sepsis setting in.”

Of course what Steve means by that is, _we’ll probably be here a while_.

“Knight’s on third,” Danny whispers. He’s holding Steve’s hand again; he’s not sure who initiated that, and his cheeks burn to think it might not have been him.

“Okay. We need something to disinfect it, and something adhesive. Look around, okay?”

Danny nods, and lets go of Steve’s fingers to fumble through their little alcove, finding a roll of duct tape without much trouble.

“Good. Okay. That cleaner over there, it’s got peroxide in it. You can clean it out with that.”

Right. Because of course Steve would volunteer to have his gaping wound washed with industrial-strength something-or-other. “That’s gonna hurt, man.”

“Only for a couple seconds.”

So Danny obeys; grabs the jug of cleaner and brings it, and the tape, back to Steve’s side. He helps Steve out of his tack vest. Then he tears off a strip of his own shirt so he can grip the rebar better.

“You want me to take off my belt? So you can bite it?”

“Nah. Don’t need to see your pants fall down.”

“I can’t tell if you’re complimenting my hips, or insulting them.”

“Oh, definitely insulting,” Steve replies, with a grin.

He doesn’t look the slightest bit afraid.

“You ready?”

Steve nods. “Just do it, man.”

So Danny seizes the rebar and tugs; it comes free, and without stopping to think, Danny opens the cleaner and splashes it liberally over the bleeding wound.

Steve screams. He just fucking screams, and it echoes off the rubble around them.

“Santana’s on shortstop,” Danny murmurs, kind of hoping Steve will yell at him about how much he doesn’t care.

Steve doesn’t. He just screams.

Danny seals the wound with duct tape, layering strip after strip on the slippery surface. Applies pressure, and more duct tape. Somewhere in there, the screaming stops, and Danny takes Steve’s hand and lets him squeeze until their bones grind together.

“_Danny_,” Steve whispers. It’s not an address so much as a statement, like he’s naming him to the universe at large. Confirming him, making him real.

“Hey, hey,” Danny whispers. “You did so good. You did so good, babe.”

“You too, buddy,” Steve rasps. He scrubs his eyes with his free hand; tears clean away some of the dust and give him a panda-esque, funny-in-a-different-situation visage. “You ready to find a way out of here?”

“Fuck,” Danny sobs, glad he’s still got one of Steve’s hands in his. “Fucking yes. Need to fucking get out of here.”

“We will,” Steve promises, squeezing Danny’s fingers one last time before letting go. He pushes, with a wince, to his feet. “We will. Come on.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Was going to continue, but I figure from there, this would more or less merge back with canon :)
> 
> I've been meaning to write this for a while. I honestly love this episode's portrayal of Danny breaking down and freaking out, because no, not everybody can be a cool cucumber in all situations, action-hero-types included. BUT, I thought it would be interesting if, while panicking, Danny nevertheless had the responsibility of Steve's physical wellbeing, instead of Steve just being the responsible one all the way around.


	17. "Stay with Me" (Danny)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Danny's planning his first trip back home, but not for happy reasons. Early season boys.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Could be read as a follow-up to chapter 7 (Isolation), but it's not at all necessary!

Dad calls around 7 in the morning, but Danny’s already at work. When they don’t have a case, Steve doesn’t care when they put in their eight; he couldn’t sleep anyway, so he came in around sun-up.

Which means he’s sitting at his desk, unbending a paperclip, when Dad gives him the news.

At first Danny thinks he can keep it together until he’s done for the day— yeah, not so much. He lasts all of five minutes before locking himself in a bathroom stall and letting out the tears.

Luckily, though, it’s far from hysterical. He’s had his share of noisy, ugly breakdowns; but this isn’t one of those. He leans against the stall door, and the tears just come. No sobbing, no fussing, no railing at God. In fact there’s something weirdly soothing about the glub of snot moving down his throat, and the way his eyes sting and then don’t, sting and then don’t, as the tears well up and slip out.

It was almost-easy news. Now this is almost-easy sadness. There’s no anger; he just feels heavy. Feels sleepy, and slow, and just needing to be hugged. Just needing to be held. Needing to close his eyes and breathe slowly and rest against someone warm and sturdy and safe.

Oh fuck, he really wants Steve. Steven fucking McGarrett.

And he spares the energy to chuckle at this, because of course a guy he’d met at literal gunpoint would become his closest friend less than one year later.

The tears end before too long. Danny blows his nose and flushes the paper, then goes to the sink and puts a little water on his eyes. By the time he’s back in his office, he’s mostly calm.

He’s looking at flights home when Steve ambles in, bearing coffee, smelling of sea. He’s on the early side, as well. They’re alone in the offices, and Danny accepts his coffee and sighs, and waits for Steve to realize that something’s wrong.

It takes less than a minute. Steve, on Danny’s couch now, pauses mid-sip and gives Danny what looks like an all-systems scan. “What’s wrong?”

“My, uh. My grandpa died this morning. Dad called a little while ago.”

“Shit. I’m sorry, Danno.”

“’sokay,” Danny mutters, though he can feel the tears building again. “You hold it up against everything else, y’know, this ninety-something-year-old guy dies in his sleep? ‘s—it’s not a tragedy.”

“Something doesn’t have to be a tragedy for it to be sad.” Steve stares at his coffee; he never finished that sip. “I remember you saying he wasn’t doing well. Your dad’s dad, right?”

“Mm.”

“How’s your dad doin’?”

“Um.” Danny swallows, thickly. “He was cryin’.”

“That’s never easy,” Steve offers, and Danny shakes his head. “How are you doin’?”

“’m fine. I guess. Lookin’ at flights. Y’know, I knew—I knew there was a good chance, that my first visit home would be for this. So there’s this weird—this weird thing, like, it’ll be so good to see everyone. But at the same time— it’s just drivin’ home that I don’t live there anymore. I’m officially the guy who has to go home for a funeral.”

“I know the feeling.”

“Right. Sorry.”

“I wasn’t saying that for you to say sorry,” Steve replies, with this weirdly serene sort of smile. “I just genuinely know what that feels like, man. And it feels pretty crappy. You want me to leave you alone for a minute?”

This last bit comes because the crying, all but inevitable, has finally started. Danny scrubs the tears with one fist and shakes his head. “No, you can—you can stay.” Steve’s seen him cry before, and neither of them burst into flames or anything like that.

“Okay. You want some water?”

“No. Thanks.”

“Um. You want a hug?”

Danny laughs, and nods; and then starts crying a little harder.

Steve puts his coffee down and comes to Danny’s side. And a moment later Danny’s cheek is against Steve’s hip and Steve’s hands are on his back and in his hair, and hugs always make him feel short but this is just ridiculous, but in truth he finds he doesn’t mind. Actually, this is—comforting.

Danny closes his eyes.

His nose is working overtime, all the teary run-off slippery as it moves down his throat. But he’s quiet, at any rate. Almost stoic. Crying, sure, but totally in control of it, letting it happen, granting his grief permission. Which is good. He doesn’t exactly want to have some ridiculous snot-fest in front of Steve McGarrett, who has so much self-control that in a past life he was probably one of those monks who could stop his heartbeat through sheer force of will. He is _not_ going to have a complete breakdown in front of Steve. Just—

Well. He needs to have a _little_ breakdown. And for some reason it needs to be in front of Steve.

Steve, who’s scratching clumsily at Danny’s head now.

Danny gives himself another thirty seconds or so, to enjoy the friendly touch, to enjoy the relief of catharsis. Then he sniffles back the rest of the tears, and pulls away.

“You mess up my hair?”

He sees the _no_ on Steve’s lips; then sees him take a second look and reconsider his answer. “A little.”

“Disrespectful,” Danny grumbles, scrubbing at his face. He willfully changes his tone, to make sure it doesn’t come out sarcastically. “Steve—thanks for that.”

“Got your back, buddy.”

“I know.”

Steve flashes a smile, and perches himself on an empty corner of Danny’s desk. He twists to regard the computer screen. “You know what day you’re flying out?”

“Not yet. I’ll put in the request as soon as I do—”

“Right, because my concern was the paperwork.”

Danny snorts. “Your paperwork phobia is going to get all of us in trouble someday.”

Steve smiles again; it’s brighter this time, and kind of heartening. Danny misses it when it fades. “Do you know the date for the services yet?”

“They’re workin’ that out now. Probably Tuesday.”

Steve glances at the screen again; then looks at Danny, then at his own feet. “I’ll go with you.”

“Huh?”

“I’ll go with you. If you want. If you don’t wanna go alone.”

Danny’s insides go warm; he tries not to laugh, in case Steve might take it the wrong way. “Steven. Babe. I genuinely do not want you to spend a freaking _grand_ to come to my Poppop’s funeral with me. It’s stupidly chivalrous, which means I know it’s right up your alley, but I will actually feel so much guilt that it will negate all comfort. Okay?”

Danny can actually see the internal debate on Steve’s face, as he decides whether or not to push more. In the end, not-pushing wins. “Well. Let me know when you’re going; I’ll at least drive you to the airport.”

“Deal.”

“You want—” Steve trails off. And Danny does laugh a little, this time, because he knows what’s going on. Steve can’t _stand_ inaction. The man cannot bear to see a problem and not be fixing it. “I could drive you home?”

“I don’t need to go home. That’s the last thing I need. Listen: I’m all right. I’m honestly okay.”

“Okay. Okay. But if there’s anything that you need—seriously, anything I can do—you’ll let me know?”

“Steve.” Danny laughs again, surprised at how much that seems to be happening. Surprised at how much he does not feel like crying, for the moment. “How ‘bout—how ‘bout we just sit and have our coffee? Okay? You could just—just stay with me, for a little while.”

And Steve latches onto that, of course; a moment later he’s back on the couch, coffee in hand, regarding Danny expectantly.

Danny moves a bit more slowly, but it isn’t long before he’s at Steve’s side.

His coffee’s still hot; it wasn’t a very long breakdown. He takes a few sips, but the familiar bitterness makes him somehow sleepier. He puts his head on Steve’s shoulder.

And, truthfully, he really is all right. It sucks, it does, but Poppop’s quality of life was next to nothing. And if there’s a bright side here, then that’s a lot better than the rest of the shit Danny’s been through in recent years. He’s all right. He’s perfectly capable of going about his day as usual today, and he’ll start that in—five minutes? Maybe ten.

For now, he and Steve are still the only ones there. And Steve seems perfectly okay with how they’re sitting currently: Steve himself upright, and Danny tucked up at his side.

So Danny will stay as he is, for just a few minutes more.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Should I be pacing myself with posting over winter break? Saving some for later? Yes.
> 
> Am I? Well...


	18. Muffled Scream (Danny)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The requisite claustrophobia one ;)

The screams are muffled, but Steve would know Danny’s voice anywhere. He’d know it saying anything, at any volume, obstructed by any obstacle that the universe pleased.

Specifically, in this case, a giant fucking rock.

Steve makes himself pause, assess the situation. He’s in front of what looks like a blank rock wall, but there must be a small cave, or maybe a lava tube, extending into it. The opening of the tube is blocked by a boulder, taller than he is. The edges form an imperfect seal; it’s through these small cracks that Danny’s voice filters, and through these cracks that Steve shouts in reply. “Danny! Can you hear me?”

“Steve?” Danny laughs. “Oh, Jesus, oh, thank God—you gotta get me outta here—”

“I will! I am!”

And, without delaying any further, Steve pushes at the rock. Shoves against it with his hands, his shoulders, throwing his entire weight against it, skin bruising, feet burning as they press for purchase inside of his heavy boots—

He fails.

It was a waste of time to try. The thing is massive. He blames the illogical decision on emotional distraction: from hours of panicked searching, and from Danny’s high, skittery laughter.

It’s Danny’s _I’m-in-deep-shit_ laughter, and it’s Steve’s least favorite sound in the world.

“You can’t move it?” Danny yelps, not laughing now. “You can’t—can’t you move it?”

For a just a moment Steve presses his sweaty forehead to the rock’s cool surface; takes ironic comfort from his witless opponent. “Not alone, buddy. You gotta hang in there for me—hang in there! I’m calling for backup.”

“Steve, I—listen to me.” Danny’s not shouting anymore; he’s begging. “You gotta get me out_ right now_. Right now. I’m not kidding.”

“As soon as I can, brother. It won’t be much longer—”

“I think I’m dying.” The voice is so small now that Steve strains to hear it; he leans towards one of the larger openings. “My heart’s all— it’s skippin’ beats, Steve.”

“Because you’re panicking. I know it doesn’t feel good, but it’s not gonna hurt you. You’re not dying.”

More laughter, sharp and awful. “Says you,” Danny bawls. “You’re gon’ get it off an’—‘m gonna be dead down here—Steve, Jesus, get me the fuck out— I’m—’m not kidding—”

Steve slips the tips of his fingers through the crack: like maybe he could reach in and pull Danny out, through a crevice too small for his knuckles. It’s another waste of time, really. Except—

Except maybe not. Maybe it’s given him an idea, that will take a lot less time than waiting for backup.

“Danny? Listen to me. I need to go to the truck. I’ll be back in one minute.”

It’s a moment before Danny replies. Then: “hurry.”

He does. Steve runs, lava rock harsh beneath his boots, scraping his ankles when his steps fall within a crevice. Thank God, the truck’s not far. And thank God as well that he even has the truck right now, because the Camaro might speed with the best of them, but he doubts its specialty tires could handle this terrain—

But the Silverado’s can. And moments later he’s guiding the truck across the rocks, up the incline, back to Danny’s side.

There’s no screaming, anymore. No sounds at all, in fact, and Steve wonders if Danny’s gone ahead and passed out. Maybe that would be for the best.

There’s a duffel of climbing gear in the truck; it’s the kind of thing that Danny likes to tease him for, but it’s possibly about to come in very handy. Steve grabs it and sets to work. First he finds all the cracks large enough to wedge a hook into; then he ropes all the hooks into one big system. Last he runs a longer rope, and ties it to the truck.

His love of knot-tying is something else that Danny teases him for; something else he’ll get to throw back in his face, hopefully very soon.

Steve checks his handiwork twice over. Then he gets back in the truck, and eases onto the accelerator.

There’s a moment of lag. Then the truck lurches forward; Steve feels it in his guts as it untethers from the rock. He reverses. Fixes the knots that slipped, and tries again.

This time that awful lurch never comes; this time there’s just the engine roaring, and the wheels grappling with the craggy ground.

Then the truck rolls forward, and the rock goes with it.

Steve drags it a few feet for good measure, before throwing the gearshift in park and hurdling back to the now-exposed tube. It’s still dark inside. The tube goes down at an angle, blocking it from sunlight almost entirely; but in the dim light, there’s the outline of Danny Williams.

He’s not too far down. Maybe a bit too much to climb out by himself—so Steve gets on his knees and reaches down with both arms.

Hands connect with his.

He tugs, and Danny’s not light but he’s hardly heavy, and five seconds after that there’s a blonde head emerging from the tube and ten seconds after _that_ Danny Williams is stumbling away from him. Falling to his knees.

Danny’s soaked in sweat, fucking drenched, his dress shirt translucent with it, his blonde hair wetted to brown. His face is red. But none of that matters because he’s alive, he’s fucking _alive_.

He’s _fine_.

Okay, he’s definitely not fine, Steve allows, as Danny shudders massively and goes to all fours, coughing, retching.

Steve crouches at his side and gives his neck a quick squeeze. “Nobody’s gonna judge you, Danno. If your body wants to throw up, you gotta let it.”

His words have a bolstering effect, though not quite as he intended. Rather than succumb, Danny spits onto the ground; then takes a slow, careful breath.

“I d-don’t know how to say this any c-clearer,” Danny grinds out. “Steven, I do n-not puke. I have n-not puked since the morning after my twenty-f-first birthday.”

Okay, maybe he’s mostly fine after all.

Steve laughs. “Whatever you say. You needa sit here for another minute, then?”

“Ngh. ‘s anybody else ‘r-round?”

“Nobody.”

Danny rends forward again, and for a moment Steve thinks he’ll throw up after all. But that’s not it. Instead he folds: brings his knees up and his chest down, and hugs both arms around his head. Sinks forward, to the ground. Like maybe he can make the world even bigger, if he can make himself smaller.

Danny shakes. Steve scruffs the back of his neck for a moment or two, then lets go, and just keeps watch.

It’s a while before Danny sits back. When he does, his face is freshly drenched with sweat (and tears, and snot) but his expression is steady. He clears his throat wetly, and swipes at his nose. “So you f-found me. So ‘m guessin’ you got the b-bastard in rendition.”

“We do. The case is closed, man. I’ll take you home.”

“Ngh,” Danny grumbles, as Steve helps him to his feet. “Take me t’the Palace.”

“It’s wrapped, man. Why’d’you wanna go in?”

“_’cause I wanna punch him in the dick_,” Danny sobs. He’s upright now, and he wilts against Steve’s side. Steve laughs.

“Don’t laugh at me. I’m n-not kidding.”

“I know.”

“So we’re g-gonna go do some dick-punching?”

“We’re gonna go get you a shower and a change of clothes. And from there, we’ll play it by ear, okay?”

“Okay,” Danny mumbles, and puts a little more of his weight on Steve. Steve laughs again. Gets an arm around Danny’s chest, and walks him slowly away.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> "Sorry" for the run of Danny chapters (but not really). Coming up, I do have a mix planned: #19 will be Jerry, #20 Steve, and #21 Eric (!). All are laid out, with bits and pieces written. That said, #19 is turning out to be kind of a long one, so bear with me...
> 
> Happy New Year to you all, since this will probably be my last post of 2019!!!


	19. Trembling (Steve)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Steve's not sure if he's seasick or just panicking; but whatever's happening feels miserable, and pathetic. Coda to 8x09.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Despite the fact that I REALLY LIKE things to be in order, prompt #19 is turning out even longer than I thought, and prompt #20 was ready to go. So I'm posting out of order. What a rebel.

Junior and Tani go to ride out the rest of the storm in a cabin, but Steve stays right where he is. Danny can’t walk. And at the moment, Steve can’t carry him, and _can’t_ leave him, so he hefts him up and fits under him, Danny’s head and shoulders in Steve’s lap. He’s the only heat in the freezing room but that’s not a good thing. He’s burning the fuck up, and Steve’s stomach starts to twist, to heave.

“Steve?” Danny struggles out of Steve’s lap. “You good?”

Nope.

“Seasick,” Steve grits out, and Danny laughs weakly.

“You’re not seasick. You’re seasick, ‘m Peyton Manning.”

“’kay,” Steve assents. “Regular sick.”

Still he’s gripped with fear: stupid compared to all else they’ve been through today, but it happened, he knows it’s happened, sailors go months, years, decades, then they catch it once, and they’re done in for life. Can’t get half a league out before feeding the fishes—

Steve hunches forward and hangs there while his body spasms; finally he gags, and vomits a big gush of seawater and stomach acid and champagne.

“Oh,” Danny grunts. He uses Steve’s shoulder to leverage himself up then keeps a hand there, rubbing, while Steve pukes a second time, then a third. “Relax. Y’re not seasick, babe. Must be the antidote doin’ i’s thing. You’re not seasick, man, stop fightin’ it. I won’t tell a soul.”

“I almos’— Danny, I almost—”

Oh. Okay.

In a weird way, a panic attack is more appealing than the other option.

Of course either way it’s still fucking pathetic.

“Hey. Hey, you almost what? Almost what, babe?”

But he just shakes his head; can’t get the word out through the lump in his throat and the taste of vomit in his mouth. His eyes are stinging, though from the ocean or from salt water all their own, he can’t tell.

“Okay,” Danny soothes. “Don’t worry ‘bout it, babe. Hey, you done?”

Steve nods, as best as he can.

“’kay. Here, c’mon. Sit here, lemme hold your han’.” Clumsily, weakly, Danny pulls him back to the couch; twines their fingers together. And with Danny for contrast, Steve can feel himself trembling.

“I almost drowned, Danny,” he gets out, then interrupts himself with a harsh, dry heave. “Oh my g—”

Then the puking starts again, and he’s not quite in time to avoid getting the vomit in his own lap, and in Danny’s. Not that it’s much more than spit-up. Nevertheless Danny huffs, familiar in his annoyance. “Real cute, Steven.”

“Sorry,” Steve bleats.

“Aw, jeez. You’re that upset, huh? S’ bad I gotta be _nice_ to you?” Danny blows out a shaky breath. “Okay. _Ohh-kay_. I’ll be nice to you, babe. Even though you just threw up on me.”

Danny’s had to let go of his hand, but now he rubs his back some more, while Steve coughs and spits, and weeps a little.

“You’re okay. We’re okay. The worst part’s over; try to relax.”

Steve doesn’t reply.

*

When the CDC lands and he finally gets a read on his fever, it’s 103.8—and that’s after an hour’s worth of antidotal action.

It should possibly be frightening. But honestly, it’s more of a relief.

You’re not really yourself with a fever of 104. It wasn’t really Steve McGarrett who almost drowned; almost got himself killed, and his best friend along with him.

Except, it was.

***

Their first night in quarantine, Danny stills feels like death. He curls up on one of the mediocre little beds, pulls the covers to his chin, and passes the fuck out.

When he wakes up, it’s afternoon. He hasn’t moved an inch but, apart from the ache of sleeping the whole night in one position, he feels—okay. Feels run down, and like they probably took him off IV fluids a little prematurely. But overall, okay.

So the second night in quarantine, he lies awake: circadian rhythms all thrown off and no illness to knock him out, pull him under. He stares at the ceiling, listens to the air filters, listens to Junior snuffling quietly.

And listens to Steve, breathing like he’s still awake, tossing and turning for a while before finally getting to his feet and leaving the bedroom.

Danny waits to hear a toilet flushing. When a few minutes pass and the sound never comes, he rolls out of bed himself and pads out to the little common area.

Steve glances upwards, clearly unsurprised to see Danny awake and coming to check on him. Danny sinks onto the couch at Steve’s side.

For a moment, neither of them speak. Then Danny nudges Steve’s knee with his.

“You think they’d let us order out? I’d kill for a pizza. Even the shit you have around here.”

Steve sighs. “I do not think they’d let us order out, Danno.”

“Why not? They’ve got a delivery system. Bringin’ us take-out’s no different than crappy hospital whatever.”

“Mm,” Steve hums; but that’s all the response that Danny gets.

Not bothering to be subtle, Danny looks the guy over. Though Danny himself had gotten sick the fastest, Steve’s the one recovering the slowest. His fever had been the last to break. And maybe it’s just the wacky fluorescent lighting, but even now, even after almost two full days with the antidote in his system, he still looks—not good.

“Hey,” Danny coaxes. “Talk to me. This still about what happened in the water?”

There’s a pause; then Steve nods.

“Listen to me. You were literally dying. You literally had hyper-speed Ebola or whatever, Steve—don’t beat yourself up for not being able to do what you normally could do.”

Nothing.

“Jesus, at least you were still trying. I was passed out on that couch, too fucking sick to even care if I died.”

“That’s,” Steve starts, then has to stop for a moment. “That’s the thing, though.”

“What’s the thing?”

“What happened in the water—it wasn’t just embarrassing. It wasted time. It was a mistake that cost us real minutes.”

Steve sits back a little: physically closing himself off, and Danny’s willing to bet good money that he doesn’t even realize he’s doing it. “And then, after Junior got me back onboard—Danny, I was still wasting time. I _paused_. To catch my fucking _breath_.”

“To catch your—God, how dare you need oxygen? After coming out of the fucking water?”

“I _knew_ I was wasting time,” Steve murmurs. “And I still wasted it. You needed the meds, and we had ‘em, and I still—”

He clears his throat; when he continues, his voice is harsh. “I was so sure, Danny, I just felt it— in my gut, I felt— I was gonna be too late. I thought we’d go back inside and you’d be— and it’ve been my fault. And my gut—is usually right, y’know? I just felt, so, so deeply, that I was wasn’t going to get back to you in time.”

Danny’s insides go cold. There are tears in Steve’s eyes, and his chin is crumpled.

“First of all,” he murmurs, leaning closer, “it would not have been your fault. Okay? Did you bring bioweapons into the United States? No, you did not. And therefore, not your fault. And second, if I may state the obvious—”

“I know,” Steve huffs, and Danny lets the sentence end there. They sit in silence for a moment; then finally Steve wipes his eyes.

“Bed?” Danny prompts.

“Can’t sleep.”

“I know. Never did the dorm thing, don’t really want to start now.”

“No, I—”

“I know,” Danny soothes. “I know.” And he does, so he stands, and pushes the other couch over, flush to the one Steve’s currently on. “Be back,” he mutters. Then goes quietly back to the bedroom and pilfers all the blankets and pillows from both his cot, and Steve’s.

Steve eyes the armful of linens with a tired smile. He helps, but only a little, as Danny makes them a blanket nest, buttressing one couch with pillows and spreading the blankets to cover both like a bed.

The moment Danny has settled, Steve sags against him.

He’s still shaking, and a little sweaty, and he’s got morning breath (middle-of-the-night breath?). He seems so human that Danny’s heart aches. In eight years, his Superman expectations for his best friend have tempered, the tiniest bit, but Steve’s expectations of himself haven’t. To be this vulnerable must hurt like hell.

Danny slings an arm around Steve’s back, tugging him closer. “Sleep if you can sleep,” he murmurs. “If you can’t, still close your eyes.”

“Mm.”

“I knew you’d get to me. I didn’t doubt you for a second, babe.”

Steve’s only response is to lay his head on Danny’s shoulder.


	20. Asphyxiation (Jerry)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "Be flattered." Jerry wilts a bit. "You’re so awesome, somebody might actually die of a broken heart.”
> 
> Or: the one where Jerry catches the flower flu.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> tw for illness, blood, general medical issues

“I hate serial killers,” Danny mutters, and shakes his head. “They’re creepy. This is creepy.”

“Serial killer?” Steve forces himself upright. “You know something the rest of us don’t? Something ‘bout another woman, killed like this?”

“I do not. But mark my words. We don’t catch this guy fast, and couple days from now, we’re lookin’ at another body, with this same signature.”

“I’m with Danny.” Jerry frowns. “That’s pathological.”

“It’s definitely—something,” Steve mutters, once again looking over the dead woman at his feet. No injuries, no obvious signs of violence; but a bloody mass of burgundy flowers spill from her mouth, littering the hardwood floor. “My first thought was, our killer posed her after death. But the blood makes it seem like—maybe he choked her with them?”

“Actually, I have to disagree with all of you.” Noelani pushes to her feet. “I’ll have to run some labs to be sure, but my initial assessment is that the victim died of natural causes.”

“Natural—?” Danny’s eyebrows raise. “What, she picked up a little snack from the florist and it went down the wrong tube?”

Noelani doesn’t take the bait.

“I’ve never seen it in person. But I’m fairly certain that what we have here is a case of something called Hanahaki Syndrome.”

“What’s that?” Jerry asks, at the same time Danny scoffs, “excuse me?”

“It’s a type of macroscopic infection. The victim inhales the pollen—think of something like Aspergillosis. But with Hanahaki, instead of fungal particles, what grows is a full-sized, flowering plant. And eventually, if it’s not treated, the patient dies of asphyxiation.”

“So. There’s a flower that literally grows in your lungs,” Danny clarifies. “I don’t like it.”

“It’s extremely difficult to catch.”

“Extremely diff—so it’s possible?” Danny’s voice has grown slightly higher. “Should we be here? Should we be wearing respirators?”

“You have a fifty times higher chance of catching the flu while out running errands than catching Hanahaki standing here.” Noelani’s tone is half reassuring, half amused, and Steve and Jerry share a quick look. A crime scene had become a biology lesson, which in turn has become a talking-down of their resident hypochondriac. “Hanahaki pollen don’t survive long without a host. And they require a very specific biochemistry to germinate in a human body.”

“I don’t understand what that means.”

“Well, Detective: how are things going with Rachel?”

At Danny’s fabulously uncomfortable expression, Noelani clarifies: “Eric’s really not the best choice of confidant.”

“Uh. Fine. Things are fine.”

“Then you don’t have anything to worry about.”

“I’m confused. I’m very confused. What does that have to do with catching the flower flu?”

“Hanahaki’s unique in more than just its etiology. It’s not well studied, but for the most part it’s accepted that the flowers can only germinate in the body of someone experiencing, um. Unrequited love.”

Somebody else might not have caught it; but Steve sees the softening in Danny’s eyes. “That’s crazy,” he mutters.

“Emotions are just chemicals, Detective. And just like certain plants can only grow in certain soils—Hanahaki plants can only grow in certain bodies. You and I are both in relationships, so we’re fine. As for the commander and—Jerry?”

At Noelani’s tone, Steve realizes that Jerry’s taken a step backwards. “You okay, Jer?”

“Yeah,” Jerry huffs. “Sorry. Gettin’ better with, like, dead bodies, but—this one just kinda hit me, just now?”

“Get some air,” Steve tells him. “We’ll meet you out front.”

Jerry nods, and hustles away. Steve turns back to the others. “Noelani, you got this from here, then?”

“I do, commander.”

“All right. Danno?”

But Danny’s face has taken on a pissy sort of frown. “We glossed over something a little too fast, just then.”

“What’s that?”

“Eric told you I’m back with Rachel?” Danny rounds on Noelani. “I mean—he just volunteered that information, or it came up—naturally, somehow—”

Steve leaves them to it, and goes to check on Jerry.

He finds him leaning against the Camaro, arms across his chest; his expression is distant, but he snaps out of it as Steve approaches. “Sorry about that, commander.”

“Hey. You don’t have to be.” Steve leans beside him. “Just ‘cause you got a badge now, doesn’t mean you suddenly gotta take everything in stride. It can be hard to be around death; that’s okay.”

Jerry nods. The tightness of his shoulders eases slightly.

For a minute or two, there’s comfortable silence; then Steve nudges Jerry’s elbow with his own. “You all right now?”

“Yeah. Yeah.” Jerry glances over with a quick smile. “Now I’m kinda just—thinkin’ ‘bout her. And the person she loved. I wonder if they know?”

“Mm. I wonder.”

“Man.” Jerry shakes himself a little. “What a weird thing. I’m surprised I’ve never caught, like, a _Mystery Diagnosis_ on it, or something.”

“Yeah, it’s—it’s something.” At that moment the front door opens, and Danny and Noelani emerge from the house. “But it’s not _our_ thing. You ready to get goin’?”

Jerry laughs. “I’m completely fine, commander. It got me for a second, but I’m good now.”

And Steve believes him; there’s no reason not to.

*

The disease is intriguing, in a sort of morbid (melancholy?) way. Steve means to read up on it. But more cases come, and his own medical problems take up more time than he’d like.

And by the time Steve hears the word _Hanahaki_ again, he’d all but forgotten it.

*

Jerry’s only late by a few minutes, but it’s enough for Steve to notice; and once he does, he notices the rest of it too. Namely, that Jerry looks like crap. His eyes are dull, his clothes are wrinkled, and for the first time since he cut his hair, he’s come to work without product in it. Loose, fluffy curls sit, untamed, atop his head.

“Hey,” Steve greets. “You all right, Jer?”

“Yeah. Sorry ’m late.”

“Not what I meant,” Steve replies, holding his hands up to show friendly intentions. “No offense, but you’re lookin’ kinda rough.”

“Mm.” Jerry rubs between his eyes like he’s maybe got a headache. “Dunno. Just been feeling kinda crappy, the last few days.”

“Probably fightin’ something off.”

“Yeah. It’s nothin’ big. What’s on the docket for today?”

Steve takes that to mean, _stop mothering me and leave me to suffer in deliberately manful silence_. So he does. Marks it low priority in his mental notes, and moves on.

But the next morning Jerry seems worse. He’s flushed—almost ruddy— and with a cough that gets harsher as the day progresses. Lou makes him tea. Danny reminds him, with an overly bright smile, that taking a sick day can be beneficial to one’s colleagues as well to oneself. Steve himself still doesn’t pay it much mind.

On the third day, though, Jerry and his bug officially move up Steve’s list of priorities.

Jerry has at least a dozen coughing fits in the morning alone. For lunch, the team treat themselves to pizza; Jerry gets down half a slice before muttering, sheepishly, that he needs to go sit where it’s quiet for a little while.

Steve lasts almost ten minutes, before going to check on him.

He doesn’t even get as far as Jerry’s office; just passing by the bathroom door, the coughing from within is painfully audible. Steve gives a courtesy knock, before letting himself inside.

“Jer?”

Jerry’s at the sink, on his feet but not upright; rather he’s bent forward, elbows to the counter, head hanging weakly.

“Jerry? It’s just me, okay?”

This gets a little nod, and now that he knows it won’t startle the man, Steve goes to Jerry’s side.

And winces. There’s vomit in the sink: not much, but enough to show how bad the cough got.

“All right. Don’t talk, man. I gotcha.” Steve runs the water, then puts a hand between Jerry’s shoulder blades. Sweat has soaked through both layers of shirt. “Think you can walk?”

Jerry nods.

“Okay. Good. Let’s go; you wanna lean on me?”

“’m fine.” He’s just as hoarse as expected. “Jus’ gimme a sec.”

“Okay. Hey. I just wanna see if you’ve got a fever, okay? Sorry if my hand’s cold—”

“Don’ have a fev’r,” Jerry grumbles, waving vaguely. Steve ignores the protest; feels the back of Jerry’s neck and, when this is inconclusive, his forehead.

“On the fence. They’ll take your temp when we get there anyway.”

“Hm?” Jerry shakes himself, and turns slowly to lean his butt against the counter. “Nah’ goin’ anywhere.”

“You serious right now? Pneumonia’s not a joke, Jer.”

“Don’t have pneumonia.”

“At this point, man, I think it’s that or something like it.”

Jerry clears his throat, with a grimace. “I have—a really bad cold, and a _really_ sensitive gag reflex. Seriously,” he adds, when Steve frowns. “’m the jerk who almost ralphs brushing his teeth, okay? ‘m fine.”

“Jerry. _Jerry_.”

“Hm?”

“I am your friend,” Steve reminds him.

“Hm.”

“And I am your boss.”

“Yes.”

“And I’m taking you to urgent care, now.”

A soft chuckle escapes, as Jerry tilts his head to one side. “Okay,” he murmurs. “You’re hard to refuse, commander.”

And so, with a quick text to Danny, they head out.

Now that he’s finally admitted to being see-a-doctor level sick, Jerry doesn’t bother to hide his misery. On the drive, he just stares out the window. In the waiting room, he hugs himself around the belly and dozes, wordlessly placing trust in Steve to wake him when his name is called.

This happens not quite half an hour later. After Jerry goes back, Steve pours himself some of the complimentary coffee and deletes spam emails on his phone. He’s just finished, and is eyeing up the magazines, when Jerry returns.

“What’d they say?” Steve stands, and follows as Jerry shuffles out of the waiting room, into the parking lot beyond.

“Well, it’s not pneumonia.” Jerry smirks a little at that.

“Okay.”

“They gave me steroids, and an inhaler, ‘cause I’ve definitely got bronchitis. But they want me to see my GP.”

They’re at the car now, and Steve frowns while he unlocks it. “I thought these guys could do pretty much the same thing as a GP.”

“Wull, they.” Jerry rubs his nose. “They think I probably need t’see a specialist. So I need a referral, because, America.”

“Oh.” Steve tries not to react with surprise, though he’d expected Jerry to be sent for x-rays at the very worst. “They say what they think—?”

“I didn’t totally understand. I mean, definitely bronchitis. But that’s usually just from a virus, and they think it might be something different here—I dunno. I’ll see what my regular doctor says. ‘s it cool if I take the rest of the day?”

“Yeah, of course.”

“Cool. Could you just—drop me back so I have my car?”

And that’s the end of the conversation.

*

Jerry takes the rest of that day, and the next two days as well. But when he comes back, he looks much improved. The cough’s still there—it sounds like the kind that might hang on for a while—but Jerry’s energy seems back to normal, and his hair is styled again.

That, more than anything else, puts Steve at ease. He’d honestly worried for a while there, after Jerry had been told to see a specialist and had then refused to keep Steve in the loop about it.

So life moves on. Jerry’s cough does linger, but it becomes background noise—literally—after a while.

And then, a few weeks later, it gets worse again.

It seems to happen suddenly. He has one decently bad fit; then, not an hour later, a fit so bad it has him grabbing at the edges of the table to stay standing.

“Get him a chair!” Steve barks. Junior does so, while Lou goes for water and Tani drags a trash can over because this is, unequivocally, so-bad-you-might-puke kind of coughing. Danny stands by, with one hand on Jerry’s back.

“Give him space,” Steve orders, quieter this time; and everyone but Danny moves away.

Almost retching now, Jerry fumbles in his pocket and produces an inhaler; he takes a hit, and buys himself time for a few good breaths. Then the coughing takes over again.

Danny’s rubbing Jerry’s back by now, small enough to perch on the arm of the chair, right at his side. Lou comes back with the water, but hesitates to offer it.

Jerry hacks, and spits into the trash can; the room is tense, like everyone thinks they should leave but doesn’t want to.

Or maybe the other way around.

Finally the fit starts easing. Lou takes over dad-duties, quietly coaching as Jerry takes tiny sips of the water. Tani brings him some tissues. And once he’s done blowing his nose and tossing all the used paper in the trash can, Steve steps up to take it away—and pauses.

Some of the gunk that Jerry spit up missed the receptacle. And under normal circumstances, that would just be gross, but this is—

Something else.

The thing isn’t black, as was Steve’s initial thought; rather it’s a velvety midnight purple, a color Steve would normally like, a dress he would have loved on Catherine, years ago. But nothing that should be expelled from the human body.

“Jerry,” Steve prompts, quietly. “What’s that?”

Jerry takes another sip of water before replying, hoarsely. “Petal.”

“A flower petal?”

“Yes. I, um.” He sniffs. “I caught a little bit of that flower flu.”

Steve’s stomach drops; then his brain catches up, and he realizes the implications behind the disease itself.

And his stomach _plummets_.

“Jerry,” Danny sighs. “Why didn’t you say something, man?”

Jerry shrugs, running his thumb along the side of his cup. “Not a conversation I knew how to start, y’know? But, um. For the record, it’s not contagious yet. It’s—well, it’s kinda TMI, I guess, but as long as what’s—coming up—is still just petals, it’s not contagious. When it’s full-on flowers, that’s when it can spread. And obviously—I won’t come to work then.”

_Would you even be able to_? Steve thinks, but doesn’t say. Yet.

“So what’s the plan?” he asks, instead.

“So, the first thing we’re trying is conservative treatment. Like, drug therapy. Steroids for the inflammation. And basically, like, hardcore antidepressants, and mood stabilizers, because if you can change the biochemistry enough then the roots can’t grow. So it’s been like, three weeks of that, so far.”

“How’s it working?” Steve prompts.

“Um. It’s not, really.” Jerry forces a smile. “Not to mention, I feel worse than ever, from all the side effects.” He wilts, a little. “They put me on the waiting list. For surgery.”

“There’s a surgery?”

“Mm. They sort of just—open you up, scrape it all out. And if they get it all, y’know. Your odds are really good. But there’s only a handful of surgeons who can do the operation. So, there’s—”

He breaks off, starting to cough again. Steve’s body tenses in response; what was unpleasant before is now an actual threat.

Luckily, it never turns bad this time. Jerry gets his breathing under control, then, wobbling slightly, pushes to his feet. “I’m okay,” he mutters, waving off multiple offers of help. “I’m gonna—I’m just gonna—take a break, for a minute.”

He leaves.

In the stillness that he leaves behind, Steve can literally feel the rest of the team processing.

Jerry’s sick. Jerry is maybe quite seriously sick.

Jerry has flowers growing in his fucking lungs.

“You gonna—?” Lou prompts, and Steve nods. Doesn’t even give Jerry ten minutes this time; he follows, thirty seconds behind at most.

He finds Jerry on the couch in his office. He’s bent over his knees, chin propped on one hand, inhaler dangling from the other.

Steve perches on the edge of Jerry’s desk, and smiles when Jerry glances upwards. “Can I get you anything?”

“No,” Jerry rasps. “Thanks.”

“Can I sit?”

Jerry nods.

So Steve joins him on the couch; at first he plans to leave some inches between them, but in the end he sits right at Jerry’s side. Close enough for the hug that will probably be required.

“Hey, man,” Steve begins, not forcing eye contact. “I get it. I know what it’s like, telling your friends you got a pretty serious medical thing happening. It sucks.”

Jerry clears his throat, carefully. “That— definitely sucked.”

“Sometimes I think it’s worse than the moment you find out yourself.”

Jerry nods. Steve wraps an arm around his back and squeezes gently; pressed together like that, he can feel that Jerry’s shaking.

“You feel like talkin’?”

“Nah. I’m okay.”

And it’s not that Steve wants to call him out, per se; but Jerry’s got to know that he can talk about it, if he wants to. So Steve takes his arm away. Puts his hand over Jerry’s hand instead, so they both can see the contrasting stillness. “It’s okay if you’re not,” Steve promises.

“Oh! Yeah, um. I mean, I’m upset, don’t get me wrong, but— the inhaler gives me the shakes. When I take it. So I’m okay. I’m not— the inhaler, is why I’m shaking still. Sorry.”

Rather than reply, Steve just squeezes Jerry’s fingers until he turns his hand over. Steve holds tightly a moment, before easing off. Jerry holds tightly, and doesn’t let go.

And Steve asks the question that needs asking. “So, um. Do you know who— who it is that you—” He trails off.

Because the thing is, Steve knows. Knows even before Jerry looks up at him with big sad eyes and a little wry smile; feels it as an ache that can’t choose between his stomach and his chest.

It still hits him like a sucker punch.

“Jerry— man, I’m— I am so, so sorry—”

“It’s literally not your fault.”

“I don’t even know what to say—”

“You don’t have to say anything. Just. Please don’t freak out,” Jerry sighs. “I really need nobody to freak out about this.”

“Right. No, I’m not, I’m just—”

“Stop. Stop apologizing. Be flattered.” Jerry wilts a bit. “You’re so awesome, somebody might actually die of a broken heart.”

Steve doesn’t even register moving, it happens so fast; one second he’s still got his hand in Jerry’s and the next he’s on his feet, a few steps away.

“Sorry,” Jerry says; Steve doesn’t turn to face him. “I was going for, like, dark humor, y’know. I didn’t mean to upset you or anything. Commander?” he adds, after a moment passes in silence. “Steve, I’m not— I’m not gonna die. Seriously.”

He hears Jerry rise, then a moment later there’s a warm, tentative touch on his back. “You said you weren’t gonna freak out.”

Steve laughs. What else is there to do? He shakes himself and looks back to meet Jerry’s eyes, finding friendliness and concern and, yeah, something softer too. More than fondness.

Something definitely non-platonic.

And rather than look any longer, Steve turns on one heel and wraps Jerry in a bear hug, that the man returns instantly. “That was it for the freak-out, Jer. I promise.”

“I’m sorry if I made you uncomfortable.”

“You don’t have anything to be sorry for.”

“Eh. Knew I should have made something up.” Jerry laughs, against Steve’s shoulder. “Um. Actually, I’m madly in love with Lou. It’s a bald kink, man, I dunno.”

They both laugh this time, and hug for a moment longer. Steve’s arms feel empty when they pull away.

“Tell me honestly, Jerry. What can I do? As your friend, or as your boss?”

Jerry shrugs. “It’ll be a month, at least, before I’m up for surgery. I’ll stay until then, at least as long as I’m not contagious. But I guess I’ll need time off, after.”

“Not a problem. And if you need to—work from home, before that, just say so.”

“I’d rather keep busy,” Jerry replies. He’s rubbing at his chest, and coughs a little, but it doesn’t turn into a fit. “Like I said. My plan is to stay, until the flowers start to open.”

“Okay,” Steve murmurs. “Until the flowers open.”

*

But it’s only four days later that Steve finds Jerry, unconscious, on the basement floor.

*

At the hospital, they admit him almost instantly.

By that point Jerry’s awake; but he’s groggy, and visibly overwhelmed, so Steve stays with him throughout. He answers questions; asks some too. And he holds Jerry’s hand in between doctors’ visits, in the quiet moments when Jerry’s anxiety seems worst.

His blood-ox is in the toilet. X-rays show rapidly spreading roots, and bloodwork indicates some kind of opportunistic infection taking hold. They get him on oxygen, and antibiotics, and stronger steroids.

Some time that night, a specialist comes by to say that they’ve managed to move him up a few places on the waiting list.

By the time this news comes, Jerry’s too wiped to even react to it. Sickness and stress have taken him for all he’s worth, and all Steve can think to do is stroke Jerry’s hand and speak to him in gentle tones, until eventually he falls asleep.

*

Steve gets home late, and sleeps like crap. Naturally, when Duke calls, it’s barely 0500.

The case takes all day—and most of the next. When Steve finally has a moment to visit Jerry again, he’s been in the hospital for two full days. Two might not be a lot, comparatively. But it can feel that way, especially when you don’t know when you’ll be getting out; especially when your closest friends are cops and can’t always visit.

For all these reasons and more, Steve picks up a bouquet before heading to the hospital.

When he get to Jerry’s room, he finds his friend awake, and looking better than he had been. His color’s back, and he’s holding himself normally. The oxygen mask that he had on when Steve last saw him has been replaced by a nasal cannula.

And even though the team hasn’t visited, it seems like his other friends have. Somebody’s brought Jerry books, a chess set, and his laptop; there’s a few cards on his dresser, along with a box of fancy-looking chocolate pretzels and an arrangement of tiny mylar balloons.

It puts Steve instantly more at ease. He knocks at the doorway, then goes over and gives Jerry a hug that’s awkward in positioning, but warm nevertheless.

“Hey, Steve.”

“You’re looking good, man,” Steve replies, pulling away. “Can I, uh—can I put these up there?” He holds up the display for Jerry’s consideration.

Jerry raises one eyebrow, sharply.

“You brought me flowers?”

“Yeah.”

“_Flowers_?”

“Oh my God.”

With his free hand, Steve covers his heating face. “Jerry, I—jeez, man—” Part of him wants to laugh at the faux pau; part of him wants to physically remove the last thirty seconds from his brain.

“Steve.”

Steve lowers his hand, and finds Jerry’s face lit up with a fond, indulgent smile.

“I’m teasing you,” Jerry says. “They’re nice.”

“Oh my God,” Steve repeats, and does laugh this time. “Oh my God, I brought you flowers. What the fuck.” Still snickering, he sets the vase next to the display of balloons. “Ta-da.”

“Thank you.” Jerry’s still smiling. “They really are nice.”

Steve pulls a chair up near the bed, and settles in. “Whatcha readin’?” he asks, nodding to the book still open in Jerry’s lap.

“Oh. It’s, um, this novel about Princess Diana where she didn’t actually die. And she’s, like, living with a new identify in the States.”

“Ah.”

“It’s just kinda mindless fun,” Jerry replies, closing it and showing Steve the cover. “For the record, I totally don’t believe it. Sometimes what they say happened, is what really happened.”

Steve laughs. “Good to hear. So, how are you feelin’, man?”

“Um. Sick. And scared.” Jerry smiles crookedly. “Wish I had a manlier answer for you.”

Steve nods. “No, I get it. I promise. Hey, it looks like you had some visitors.”

“Yeah, couple of friends came by. I was kind of too spaced out to tell them what to get from my apartment, but they made some good guesses. Computer, chargers, fuzzy socks—all’a that.”

“Well, we wrapped the case, so I’m free. Anything I can pick up for you?”

“Besides flowers?”

“Besides flowers,” Steve agrees, pulling a face.

“Nah,” Jerry replies. But then emotion passes over his face in a tangible wave.

“What?” Steve prompts.

“Nothing. I’m good.”

“_Hey_. I’m genuinely offering. You should be as comfortable as you can be, for real.”

Jerry takes a slow, careful breath; then sighs it back out. “On my bed, at my place, there’s—this old afghan. It’s ugly as sin, real seventies color scheme, you couldn’t miss it. My—my grandma made it for me. And I just—”

He chokes up, and has to stop. Steve waits, not forcing eye contact.

“I just think I’m gonna be here a while,” Jerry continues, when he finally can. “It’d be nice to have it.”

“You got it, brother,” Steve vows. “Anything else, while I’m there?”

Jerry shakes his head, still visibly verging on tears.

And the thing is, Steve himself has sat in a hospital bed and tried not to cry more than once in his life. And some of those times he’s wanted privacy. And some of those times he’s wanted somebody to hold him and rock him and tell him to let it all out.

Despite his experience, he has no idea which Jerry would prefer; but it occurs to him that there is an option three.

“If I left now,” Steve offers, gently, “I’d be back by the end of visiting hours.”

“Oh. You don’t have to go now—”

“Where’s your house key?” Steve says, by way of reply.

Jerry’s place isn’t far, but Steve hits traffic. He’s gone more than an hour, and by the time he gets back, Jerry’s asleep.

Steve spreads the afghan over him. And stays at Jerry’s side, reading his pulpy conspiracy novel, until the nurses kick him out.

*

In the following weeks, Steve visits every day that he can. Eric coordinates a group text between the team and Jerry’s other friends, to ensure that he’s got at least one person with him every evening.

The duration of Jerry’s stay goes undiscussed. Nobody says aloud what everybody knows: that he won’t be released until after the surgery. And the date hasn’t even been set yet.

One Friday, around lunchtime, Steve gets a text; without giving any details, Jerry asks if he can come over earlier than usual today. They have no case, so Steve replies that he’ll head over now.

When he arrives, Jerry’s not alone; but the visitor doesn’t look like she’s there to be social. Indeed, when Steve enters, she shakes his hand with a small, professional smile.

“You’re Commander McGarrett?”

“Good to meet you,” Steve replies, automatically.

“I’m Dr. Rhee. I’ll be coordinating Mr. Ortega’s case, leading up to his surgery.”

“She’s a specialist,” Jerry puts in, speaking for the first time. “Hey, Steve.”

“Hey, Jer.” Steve notes immediately that Jerry looks kind of downtrodden.

“Commander, I’ll be direct,” Rhee continues. “Mr. Ortega has briefed me on who you are, and your relevance to the case.”

_Jerry has told me that he is, unfortunately, in love with you_, Steve’s mind translates. He crosses his arms, so he can’t fidget.

“The fact that you’re aware of the situation, and that you obviously have your friend’s best interests at heart, puts us at an advantage here.”

“All right—?”

“Studies are limited, of course. But it’s been the experience of myself, and of my colleagues, that the progression of the syndrome can be slowed with a simple therapy.”

“That’s fantastic. How can I help?”

“Simply put? You can be physically present as much as possible.”

A glance at Jerry reveals that he’s red as a tomato.

“Of course.” Steve looks quickly back to Rhee. “Whatever I can do.”

“Evidence supports that your presence, even if you do not reciprocate romantic feelings, is enough to chemically deter root growth.”

“Okay. Yeah, of course.”

“Patient outcomes are often much improved by this alone,” Rhee adds. “And again, to be direct, we tend to see the best outcomes when the patient is kept company overnight, as well.”

“Ohmygod,” Jerry groans, and covers his face with one hand. “That makes it sound like he’s supposed to sleep with me.”

“Well, yes,” Rhee replies, and Jerry makes another sound of pure embarrassment. “Ah. No, not in that sense. In the sense of a platonic physical presence. I’ll—leave you to discuss this, shall I?”

Still a bit stunned, Steve can only shake the doctor’s hand again, as she exits the room.

Jerry raises his face, catches Steve’s eyes; and promptly hides his face again. “_I’m sorry the scary lady told you that you have to hang out with me for medical reasons_,” he blurts, in a rush.

“The scary lady told me that I should _sleep_ with you for medical reasons,” Steve corrects. Because, come on. The day he stops teasing Jerry completely is the day that Jerry’s too sick to be teased. And nobody wants that day to arrive.

While Jerry groans some more, Steve pulls up his usual chair and starts shuffling some Uno cards. But when he’s still hiding his face a minute later, Steve sits forward.

“Hey.”

“Mm?”

“Jerry, look at me.”

He does.

“This is weird. This whole thing is weird. And scary, and—heavy. I know it is.”

“This is the weirdest thing that’s ever happened to me,” Jerry mutters. “And a lot of weird stuff has happened to me.”

“I know. You’re kind of a magnet.”

“I am.”

“But listen,” Steve continues, deliberately gentling his voice. “I love you, Jer. I know it’s not how you wish it was. But I do love you. And if I can do something to help, obviously I’m gonna do it.

“Okay,” Jerry whispers, looking down. “Thanks, commander.”

“If this is paying it forward, it’s pretty easy, really. Danny got a vital organ cut in half for me. All I have to do is spend time with somebody that I already enjoy spending time with.”

And although Steve’s not always the best at knowing what to say, he can tell that he’s gotten it right this time. Jerry smiles, and after a moment sits up straighter.

Steve just deals them their cards, and plays the first move.

*

Because of the situation—and okay, maybe because Steve throws a little weight around—Jerry’s moved to a private room. He’s had a few good roommates, and only one not-so-good one. And he’s been lucky, in how often he doesn’t have a roommate at all. But honestly? If Jerry’s going to be there for the duration, and if Steve is going to very possibly be staying overnight, a one-patient room seems like a real advantage.

Steve doesn’t stay that night. He doesn’t have anything with him; besides which he thinks that they both need a little time to get used to the idea. But he hugs Jerry for a long, long time before leaving.

Back at his house, he spends some quality time with Eddie, and makes sure that Junior knows he’ll be the main dog dad for the next few weeks. Then he packs a duffel full of clothes, and a backpack full of DVDs and board games.

Then he gets in bed, taking an extra moment to appreciate how comfortable his mattress and linens are; he gets a feeling it will be his last night at home for a while.

The next day, Saturday, passes easily. A few of Jerry’s other friends are keeping him company already, so Steve goes for a swim, and runs some errands. When he get to the hospital in the afternoon, Lou and Adam are there. The four of them play through some of the games that Steve has brought, then crowd around Jerry’s laptop to watch a movie.

By the time Steve and Jerry are actually alone, Jerry’s half-asleep anyway. He’s under his afghan, curled up as much as he can be given his IV and cannula; though Steve knows he enjoyed all his visitors, the day has worn him out.

In a way that’s good. Tonight will inevitably be at least a little awkward, but maybe it will be less so if Jerry is already calm.

Steve gets ready for bed, changes into pajamas. Sets his phone to charge; and then it’s time for the decision they’ve both been avoiding.

“Hey. Jer?”

“Mm?” Jerry’s eyes blink open.

“It’s up to you, man. I can sleep in the chair”—the private room has a surprisingly comfortable armchair— “but I could sleep in the bed, too. If you wanted.”

“Wull, what d’you wanna do?”

“I’ll genuinely be comfortable either way,” Steve replies. It’s not exactly true; the chair doesn’t recline and the bed would be a tight fit, not to mention kind of awkward.

Jerry’s hesitation is as good an answer as any.

Steve laughs, trying to make himself as open and casual as he can; it’s not a hard sell, given that he’s wearing plaid pajama bottoms and a t-shirt he tie-dyed with Charlie. “All right. I mean, this doesn’t seem like the time to go half-in, right? How about we try the bed. And if it doesn’t work out, then tomorrow, we’ll try something else.”

“’kay,” Jerry mumbles, and makes room.

As predicted, it’s not exactly comfortable. The bed’s big for a hospital bed, but it’s still on the smaller side, and the back is angled upright. There’s only thin blankets, and Jerry’s ratty old afghan. As Steve lays in the dark, he can hear the wheeze in Jerry’s breathing, that keeps his mind on why, exactly, this is necessary.

But he drifts off faster than he would have expected. And when they wake in the morning, the wheeze is nearly gone.

*

_For someone so crazy_, Danny had once told him, _you sure love your fucking routines_.

And it’s true. Steve loves routines; he loves keeping them and, when he can’t, he loves creating new ones as soon as humanly possible.

Maybe that’s why living at the hospital is actually pretty easy.

It’s clear after just one night that sleeping in the same bed is the way to go. The next day Jerry looks better than he has since being admitted. The next day, Junior and Tani visit, giving Steve a few hours to get out and exercise. But that night, climbing into bed besides Jerry feels almost-normal already.

Monday morning he showers and shaves at the hospital, which also feels not-as-strange as it could have. He bids Jerry goodbye and heads into work.

But that evening, though Jerry works to hide it, the wheezing is back in full force.

So on Tuesday Steve submits his leave of absence.

*

The next days pass slowly, but for once Steve doesn’t mind. It almost feels like he’s finally giving into the exhaustion that’s been hounding him for years; but it doesn’t feel like a defeat so much as a truce. A temporary accord. No, he won’t stay still forever, but he’ll stay still for a week or two without complaint.

And _still_ is relative. Jerry’s doing better, and is no longer bedbound; they spend a lot of their time outside, in the hospital’s small green space, or in the cafeteria, drinking coffee. And talking. Just talking. Steve’s always enjoyed Jerry’s company—well, maybe not _always_, but for the last few years—and now they have time to babble on about anything and everything they please.

So they do. There were things Steve already knew about Jerry, of course: his conspiracy stuff, his Elvis stuff, his favorite movies. But this feels like a highlight reel. A week later he also knows that Jerry loves the smell of bleach and that he hated his third grade teacher and that Big Band music makes him think of his grandfather. Knows that he’s broken his right foot twice. Knows that he’s weirdly obsessed with trying fruits he’s never tried before.

Knows that he is so very deeply kind.

They watch movies and play games and chat for hours; and when night falls, Steve climbs into bed besides Jerry, without hesitation.

*

Steve jerks awake; for a moment he has no idea where he is, which makes it even harder to swallow down his military instincts. But then he remembers.

In the hospital, but he’s safe. He’s not there for himself.

In the hospital-quasi-dark he lies still, feeling sweat soak his back, desperate to get up but not willing to disturb his bedmate.

Though apparently he does anyway.

“Hey,” Jerry mumbles, stirring drowsily. “You okay?”

“Yeah. Um. Weird dream,” Steve grunts; now that Jerry’s awake, he does what he didn’t want to do before and sits up, rubbing his eyes.

There’s a pause, then Jerry asks, uncertainly, “d’you—wanna talk about it?”

Steve shakes his head, for a second longer than he should, then turns back to Jerry and flashes a_ what-can-you-do _face that he probably doesn’t see in the low light. “I guess I should have warned you, that that happens sometimes.”

In the dark, Jerry’s squinting. “I guess I’d be surprised if it didn’t.”

“Thanks?”

“No offense intended,” Jerry adds, smiling tiredly. “Just. Y’know. Shit, I have nightmares about a lot of shit, and I haven’t seen half as much as you.”

Steve pulls in a deep breath, and lets himself slump a little as he blows it back out. “I guess I really have seen some shit, man.”

“What time is it?”

Steve squints at his watch. “Quarter to one,” he replies, trying not to sound disappointed. After a dream like that, he’d love to just get up for the day, and had been hoping it would be 0400 at least.

“I mean—no alarm set. We could stay up for a little while, if you wanted?”

“Nah. You need rest.”

“Okay. Then, um. Since we’re, like—I mean, since we’re already—” Jerry sighs, laughs at himself, just a little. “I could hold you? I mean, if it’d make you uncomfortable, or if you don’t want to, we obviously don’t, like, have to—”

“Oh! Um.”

“Yo—we one hundred percent do not have to do, dude, it was just an offer—”

And he knows that Jerry means it. But Steve just shakes his head and clears his throat; all else aside, now that it’s been offered, he _does_ want to be held. Pretty badly, to be honest. Awkwardness is a small price to pay, especially since he can more or less force himself past it, if he tries.

He forces himself to lie back, not facing away this time. Forces himself to settle against Jerry’s warmth, lay his head on Jerry’s chest.

At first Steve can think of nothing but his breathing; it just seems too loud, especially since Jerry’s breathing is nearly silent, now. His body feels too heavy. Jerry’s not small by any means, but he’s sick, and should Steve really be putting any weight on his chest—?

“Hey, hey. You’re not hurting me, man. Relax, c’mon.”

So he tries. Closes his eyes and makes himself breathe as deeply as he needs to; makes his muscles untense; and before too long he’s curled up against Jerrys’ side and Jerry’s holding him in the crook of one elbow.

And then Steve doesn’t need to try anymore. There’s no effort at all, in being held this way, and what even was the last time he _was_ held this way? He _actually_ can’t remember.

Steve sighs. Nuzzles a bit against the smooth cotton of Jerry’s gown; untucks his arm from against his own chest and rests his hand lightly on Jerry’s chest instead. Jerry’s fingers cover his. Then Jerry smooths his thumb across Steve’s knuckles; he pauses a moment, waiting to be told to stop, but when he’s not, he keeps going. Keeps stroking lightly over the back of Steve’s hand, making the little hairs there stand on end, making Steve just fucking melt somewhere deep in his guts.

“Hey,” Jerry murmurs. “’m gonna sleep. Move if you gotta, okay, don’t worry about waking me up. I’m not holding you down, I promise.”

“I know. I know that.”

“You’re just—you’re safe, okay? So sleep, if you wanna try.”

“Okay,” Steve whispers, and does.

*

Steve wakes to a numb arm, and dried drool tacky on his chin—and the vague impression that he slept maybe better than he has in years. He’s barely shifted at all during the night. He’s still tucked against Jerry’s side, head on Jerry’s shoulder, one arm slung across Jerry’s belly and the other squashed below his own hip (hence the numbness, though he hardly cares). Outside the window, it’s full daylight. Back inside the room, Jerry’s eyes are open, and he’s watching with drowsy fondness as Steve emerges bit by bit from sleep.

“Hey.”

“H’y,” Steve grunts. Wipes his mouth, and shifts his weight off his arm.

“You doin’ okay?”

“Mm.”

“Seems like you slept okay.”

“Mm,” Steve hums again, not quite conscious enough for real dialogue. Instead he drags his limp arm into his lap and tries to flex his fingers.

“D’d I lie on your arm?”

“Nn. I did.”

“’kay. Lemme up, gotta pee. Then you c’n go back t’sleep, ‘f you want,” he adds, when Steve grumbles at this.

Steve just grumbles more. Lets Jerry up, waits, and slumps back into his arms the instant he returns. And fine, he’s being maybe a little juvenile. But Jerry is literally in the hospital because his crush didn’t have a crush on him back, so. Who’s more juvenile, really?

“You gonna sleep more?”

The answer should be no; even if he hasn’t been doing full work-outs, he should get up and do some stretches or push-ups or something. But he’s just so _comfortable_. Not because the bed is overly nice but because the way Jerry’s holding him is just so gentle, and steady and fond and so—so—

So familiar, he wants to cry.

But so fucking soothing he thinks he might never cry again.

“’mma sleep more,” Steve mumbles. And then he doesn’t; just closes his eyes and snuggles against Jerry’s side and pretends, but Jerry plays along.

*

From that point on, there’s no hesitation. None. At night Steve crawls into bed besides Jerry, and fits safely in the crook of his arm. Before long they fall into the same habit when they’re not asleep, as well.

Days pass. They take naps and go for little walks; play board games when they have visitors, watch movies when they don’t.

It’s been over a week since Steve’s last nightmare, when he gets the call.

Danny’s on the mainland. Lou and the rookies have tried their best to work the case as a team of three, but just this morning they’ve decided that they can’t.

Steve hugs Jerry, and grabs the boots that have been collecting dust in the corner.

The case take the full day. It takes a lot out of Steve, as well. No, he’s not out of shape, but he’s out of—out of _Five-0 mode_. Add to this exhaustion the loss of two civilian lives, and, honestly? He’s spent.

So yeah. The thought of climbing into bed, cuddling up to somebody he cares about— somebody who likes to rub Steve’s back, who’s always warm and always smells clean— it’s not an unpleasant thought. Not at all. It’s enough motivation to shower at the Palace, then drive himself back to the hospital and drag himself up to Jerry’s room. A few more steps, and he can rest—

Or not.

Upright in bed, Jerry’s holding his phone in his lap, apparently on a video call. Tears are streaming down his cheeks. “I gotta go,” he mumbles, as Steve comes in. “I gotta—”

“It’s okay, Jer.” The voice that replies is familiar. “I’ll see you soon, brah.”

“See you.”

The box of tissues is within Jerry’s reach; but Steve brings it to him anyway, and sets it at his side. Jerry tugs some out and cleans himself up.

“Was that Chin?” Steve prompts, once Jerry’s a bit calmer.

Jerry nods.

“He coming out for the surgery?”

“Um.” Jerry’s still crying a little, and he blots once more at his runny nose. “Kind of—kind of good news, bad news thing, about the surgery.”

Steve’s stomach tightens, but he doesn’t let it show. “All right,” he says, settling in a chair to give Jerry some space. “What’s up?”

“So. So, my stats are looking better. That’s the good news.”

“That _is_ good.”

“But then, um. I found out this morning that, I got bumped a few spots down the list.” He snorts. “I mean—more like other people got bumped in front of me, but—”

“All right. That’s frustrating, but we’ll manage.”

“Well. So, the thing is,” Jerry continues, “now I have a different surgeon. Which is fine. But she doesn’t—the only hospitals she operates out of are on the mainland.”

“They’re gonna make you fly?”

“I’m cleared for it.” Jerry shrugs, looking helpless. “Might be a hassle, but apparently it won’t kill me.”

“Okay.”

“One of her hospitals is in LA. So I’ll stay with my sister, once I’m released. And Chin’s gonna come down, and stay a few weeks.”

A fresh wave of tears wells up, and spills over. Steve takes his hand.

“What’s up, Jer?”

“So I just,” Jerry begins, then shakes his head. “Sorry,” he bleats, lifting their hands a little. “Hadda take the inhaler an’— now I’m all shaky.”

Jerry hasn’t needed his inhaler in weeks, but Steve doesn’t comment. “It’s okay. Hey, it’s fine, man. Talk it out. Please.”

“I just think I might stay out there a while,” Jerry says, in a rush. “I’ve been, like, meaning to spend some time with Izzy anyway.”

“Okay. That’ll be good.”

Jerry glances up, meets Steve’s eyes; and Steve understands why that kind of isn’t good after all.

“Right. You might stay out there—a while. Like, _a_ _while_.”

“Yeah.” Jerry sniffles, loudly. “I think I’m kinda taking the whole California thing as maybe, like, a sign.”

“Okay.”

“Just—listen, commander, you’ve been—you could not have been more amazing, with this whole thing. Seriously. You’ve been so, so great. I just. I think I need to put some distance, between me and—”

“Me?”

“I was gonna say _this_,” Jerry replies, with a drippy laugh. “But, yeah. I don’t—I don’t wanna make you uncomfortable. And I don’t—but—”

Suddenly his fingers slip out of Steve’s, and Jerry runs both hands down his face.

“I have never felt this way about anyone else,” he murmurs, once his hands come away from his mouth. “I’m serious. And I know that, while you’ve known me, I haven’t really dated, but—I’ve dated before. So I know, I’ve never been in love before now. And so unless you’ve gone to, like—gay conversation therapy or something—I think I need some space from this. From us, not being an _us_. I’m sorry,” he adds, nearly whispering now.

“It’s okay,” Steve murmurs. It’s not okay, but what’s there to do about that? “It’s okay, Jer. Did they give you a new date for the surgery?”

“Two weeks from yesterday. And they want me in LA at least three days before."

“Okay. So you fly out in a week, more or less.”

“Mm.”

“So, for this week—” Steve keeps his voice light. “For this week, how can I do what’s best? I mean, I could get out of your hair—?”

“Um.” Jerry paws clumsily at one eye. “I don’t want you to go.”

“Okay, hey,” Steve murmurs. And suddenly personal space seems less important than comfort, and Steve climbs into bed and takes Jerry in his arms. Jerry hides against Steve’s chest and sniffles wetly. “That’s okay. You can cry, man. It’s a hell of a lot to process.”

“No, s’just—why are you always—so understanding?” Jerry turns his face to the side, and his voice unmuffles, mostly. “I’ve dragged you through so much with this. I tell you I’m leaving. Then I ask you to stay anyway, and you stay?”

“Thought we’d been over this,” Steve replies, quietly.

“Right. We’re friends. Okay.”

But a moment later he’s crying again, in earnest; Steve lies back to hold him closer. “Shh, hey. What’s wrong? What’s wrong, Jerry?”

“’m scared,” Jerry sobs, tears soaking Steve’s shirt. “I’m just really—fucking—_scared_. They’re gonna cut me open. And scrape me out. And I just—I don’t want the surgery. I _don’t_.”

But there isn’t a choice; and they both know it.

So Steve shushes, and weaves one hand into Jerry’s hair. And just lets him cry.

*

Steve wakes that night to Jerry coughing violently. He gets him a basin and stays at his side while he spits up a few petals and then, to Steve’s dismay, some blood as well.

Before the sun is up, they’ve increased Jerry’s oxygen and meds. They’ve added a low dose of tranquilizer as well, because the attack—the first bad one since his hospitalization—has Jerry panicking more than a little.

Steve lies with him, tries to keep him calm. And tries to keep his own emotions fully out of the mix, because it’s hard not to blame himself for this sudden downswing.

Honestly it’s getting harder not to blame himself for the whole thing.

Rhee comes by in the early afternoon, to reassess Jerry’s condition; she orders new x-rays, and the shuffle of this keeps them all busy for a while. It’s not until early evening that they get any real news.

Back in their room, the doctor holds the films up to the light. “You see this shape here?” she prompts, gesturing. “This ovular formation?”

Steve and Jerry both nod. Jerry’s sitting in the armchair, because he was feeling restless, so Steve’s cross-legged in the middle of the bed.

“That’s a full blossom, forming in the primary bronchus.”

“What’s that mean?” Jerry’s voice is slower than usual, from the tranqs, but he seems sober enough.

“Up until this point all floral activity has taken place in your lower lungs. Any matter you’ve expelled has been limited to petals, while the pollen, which as you know is contagious, has remained within the lungs.”

“And when this blossom opens?” Steve prompts.

Rhee nods. “When this blossom opens, Mr. Ortega will officially need to be quarantined. As such, he’ll be ineligible for air travel.”

“So. He’s back to having the surgery in Hawaii?”

It surprises Steve, how happy the thought makes him; without the universe sending a sign to move to California, maybe Jerry will change his mind about the whole thing.

These hopes are promptly dashed.

“Technically this development does not increase surgical urgency. Patients are far more affected by the roots than by the blossoms themselves, and in Mr. Ortega’s case, the root system is still fairly loose. Thanks in great deal to you,” she adds, to Steve, and an unexpected wave of guilt floods Steve’s insides.

“Because of this,” Rhee continues, “I can’t in good conscious increase the timeline for surgery. To do so would deprioritize sicker patients. What I do recommend, though, is that we get the flight over with as soon as we can. You can be safely quarantined in Los Angeles until your procedure.”

“So, I’m,” Jerry begins, frowning. “I’m going to LA sooner?”

“Yes.”

“When?”

“Tomorrow night.”

Jerry nods. And honestly, he must be more out of it than Steve had guessed, because he looks kind of—torpidly okay with the idea.

This time it’s Steve who’s panicking. It was only yesterday that he heard of Jerry’s plans to _maybe_ move to California for _a while_. And now this move is happening tomorrow?

“We like a medical professional to accompany patients, if they’re required to travel. As it happens, I need to be in Los Angeles myself in two days’ time. So I’ll be your accompaniment. Should please the insurance company, at any rate, since I was going already.”

“Did you book the tickets yet?” Steve gets out.

“No. I have them on standby.”

“All right. Can I have the flight information?” He hates to imagine how much his own ticket will cost at such late notice, since it certainly won’t be covered. But this will have to be a case of book now, worry later.

“Of course. But Commander McGarrett—”

“What?”

“Mr. Ortega will almost certainly be quarantined within a day or two of arrival,” Rhee explains. “There would be very little point in your accompanying us.”

“Excuse me? You’re the one who told me to spend time—now you’re telling me to send him off to the mainland alone?”

“The advice I gave was not at the expense of your own health. Regardless of the location, once quarantine was put in place, you’d have been disallowed anyway.”

“Commander,” Jerry puts in, speaking for the first time in a few minutes. “It’s okay. Chin’ll be there. An’ my sister. ‘f I can still have visitors. ’s not a big deal.”

_Says the guy who cried himself to sleep about it last night_, Steve thinks, kind of dizzily.

“I’m sorry things are moving so quickly.” And she actually does look pretty sorry about it. “But I’ve coordinated treatment for over six hundred Hanahaki patients throughout my career. This is simply the way it happens, sometimes. If it helps, I have to say—you’ve been one of the most cooperative non-partners I’ve ever worked with. Mr. Ortega’s prognosis is excellent, and you’ve played a large role in that.”

“My prognosis is excellent, man,” Jerry echoes. Which in other circumstances might have been funny—but in these circumstances it is very much not so.

“We’ll be leaving for the airport around five tomorrow afternoon. Does either of you have any questions for me?”

They don’t.

“Good evening, then,” the doctor says, and leaves.

In the silence, Jerry lays back in the chair and closes his eyes.

On the bed, Steve counts his breaths until he doesn’t feel like crying anymore; it takes nearly a hundred.

*

He doubts they’ll sleep, but they do. Neither holds the other, though; rather they lie like they did those first awkward nights, side-by-side despite the prohibitive lack of space.

In the morning he helps Jerry pack. It’s a simple enough matter to take the clothes and necessities that he already has at the hospital, then add whatever extras they can fit. A couple of books make it in, along with the Uno cards, and a stuffed dinosaur that Lou gave him.

The afghan doesn’t fit. Steve vows to ship it to Izzy’s apartment.

The room looks bleak, with everything gone; the garbage is full of wilting flowers and deflating balloons. Steve’s things are packed as well. He’ll be sleeping in his own bed for the first time in weeks, tonight; but it’s a lot less exciting than he would have expected.

There’s less than three hours before Jerry leaves. Less than three hours, before Steve might never see his friend again.

He takes a long, careful breath.

“I’m not leaving until you do,” Steve begins, quietly. “But I’d rather say goodbye now. While we have some privacy.”

Jerry blinks over. He’s on the bed, hands folded atop his belly; Steve’s in the chair again. “Does that ever actually work?”

“Does what work?”

“When people decide to say goodbye, like, on their own terms. Does that ever actually work? What’ll you say to me when I actually drive away?”

“I guess I’ll say the word _goodbye_. But you know that’s not the same.”

Jerry blinks again. He looks sick, and stoned.

“Or we could not. Or I could get on a different plane, and meet you in LA. Fuck quarantine. I’m not in love with anyone; I can’t catch that shit. I just—I just hate the thought of you doing this alone, man.”

“I won’t be alone.”

“You know what I mean.”

At last Jerry moves his head, and meets Steve’s eyes. “Commander?”

“Yeah?”

“Why do you care?”

It’s such an honest, innocent question that Steve’s blood boils. “Why do I care? Jerry—how many times do I have to prove myself to you, man? I’ve spent the last _month_ cooped up in this room, for you! When do we get to the point that you—that you give me the benefit of the doubt?! ‘cause I gotta tell you,” he adds, forcing his voice back to a normal volume. “I’m kinda tired of it.”

He buries his face in his hands, so he can’t shout anymore.

When Steve looks back up, there are tears streaming down the sides of Jerry’s face.

He sighs. Goes automatically for the tissue box, and finds that somehow, in the packing-up of the morning, the thing’s been displaced. Gets some toilet paper from the bathroom instead.

Back at Jerry’s bed, he holds it out like an olive branch, relieved when Jerry takes it and blots it under his nose. “I’m sorry, brother,” Steve murmurs, hands feeling empty now. “That was out of line. Seriously.”

Jerry voice’s comes out thick. “You weren’t wrong.”

“Yeah, but I didn’t have to get loud about it. Can I sit?”

Jerry nods, so Steve perches at his side.

“I’ll come back, y’know. I’ll have to; all my stuff’s here. Maybe we could decide to, like—say goodbye then?”

“So this is, what? A see-you-later?”

“Could call it that.”

“I’m sorry, by the way. I don’t think I’ve said that, yet.” As always, it’s chilly in the room, and Steve wishes he hadn’t already put the afghan in his duffel. Somehow he’s grown as fond of it as Jerry is. “I’m sorry that you had to go through this. For taking you to that crime scene, and for— you know.”

Jerry smiles, faintly. “For not falling in love with me?”

There’s nothing to say, so Steve just smiles back.

“Hey.” Jerry wipes his eyes, and sits up a little. “Let’s just—let’s watch a movie, or something. We sit here and talk and we’ll both just end up cryin’. Let’s just—”

In lieu of finding the right word, Jerry just moves his hand: smoothly, blissfully, like riding a perfect swell.

Steve sniffles, and mops at his eyes too. “We packed your laptop.”

“We’ll take it out, man,” Jerry laughs. “And the blanket, while we’re at it. You’ve got goosebumps. You know what you wanna watch?”

“Nah. Maybe something, like. Not too heavy?”

“Yeah. We’ll find something on Netflix, so we don’t gotta take out the DVDs, too.”

They set it up. Take out what they need, and curl up in bed.

Steve barely notices what they choose. It hardly matters, in any case. From the first scenes, they’re ignoring it already: eyes closed, held warmly in each other’s arms. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Wow. Okay. My main goal this weekend was to finish this chapter, and I DID!
> 
> I definitely went out on a bit of a limb with this one. There was a Hanahaki fic published in this fandom, about Noelani I believe, a few months ago. At the time I had never heard of this trope! But then I encountered it a few times in the Good Omens fandom, and anyway, I started really wanting to do a Jerry fic with it. This turned out WAY longer than expected, but I also like it quite a lot. In fact I might spruce it up and flesh it out, and publish it as a standalone story, if I find the time.
> 
> In any case, lovely readers: although I am genuinely happy just to know that you are reading/enjoying, I would deeply appreciate some comments on this one. Not only did I work my ass off, but I left my comfort zone too. Could definitely use suggestions and/or encouragement <3


	21. Laced Drink (Eric)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Eric's the king of bad decisions, and best intentions.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> tw for the use of date rape drugs, but NOBODY is hurt/abused

It’s not the first time he’s picked his nephew up from a bar. It’s not the tenth time. It’s probably not the twentieth. It is, however, the first time in a while, so Danny spends the ten-minute drive with a frown that doesn’t let up even once.

It does vacillate, though: between a frown of annoyance and one of worry.

Annoyance because, hello, it’s almost midnight, and Uber is a thing now even if it wasn’t in Eric’s heavy partying days. There were other safe ways to get home. Ones that didn’t involve pulling his already sleep-deprived uncle out of bed.

And worry, because. Well. Eric obviously knew that there were other safe ways, and yet he still called.

Danny turns into the bar’s parking lot, and swings into an empty space. He’s out of the car and headed towards the bar when his phone rings, displaying Eric’s number. He answers with a grunt.

“See you,” Eric’s voice mumbles. “W’re not ‘nside.”

“Where are you?”

It takes a moment for a very inarticulate Eric to guide Danny to his location, on a curb some distance from the door. But Danny gets to him before too long, and hangs up the call.

“I was wondering who _we_ was,” he grumbles, coming to a stop before Eric, and Jerry. Now that he’s actually got eyes on Eric, annoyance is superseding worry. Especially given Jerry’s presence. Seriously, the two of them are both actually-quite-intelligent, but somehow they each always make the other stupider. “You wanna tell me why—”

“’ncle D,” Eric huffs. And Danny has the impression that it’s taken his brain a little longer than usual to form the letter sounds. “We need you—for a cop. We need you as a cop.”

Danny’s stomach sours. “What does that mean? You get a in a fight—?”

“Bartender,” Eric blurts. “He’s—”

“We think the bartender might be spikin’ the drinks.” Jerry sounds relatively sober; but _relatively_ is the key word there. Being sober, relative to Eric, isn’t hard right now.

“_Excuse_ me?”

“Bartender,” Jerry repeats. “We think he’s been spiking drinks.”

“Why do you think that?”

“Two girls, tonight. Both of ‘em started actin’ funny. They’re okay,” Jerry adds, quickly. “Both left with their friends. Like, same friends they came with.”

“All right.”

“But they weren’t drunk drunk,” Eric adds. His head has made its way to Jerry’s shoulder. “It was—more like—y’know. Like, drugged. Knocked out.”

“And their drinks were definitely made by the same dude. We’re sure of it.”

Danny rubs his forehead, wishing suddenly for a button-down and slacks instead of the t-shirt and joggers he’s got on. “You said both of the girls left, though. Even if I can immunity-an’-means this guy and arrest him, nothing’ll stick without—”

“Um,” Eric interrupts. “Don’t be mad, ‘kay? D?”

“Don’t be mad, what.”

“’m the evidence.” Eric’s eyes flick upwards, and Danny realizes for the first time just how badly the kid is sweating. He takes one slow, deep breath.

“What do you mean, you’re the evidence?”

“We knew—we knew the girls were—leaving, so—he made ‘nother girl a drink. Pretty girl. Made another pretty girl a drink. So I—drank it.”

“You drank the girl’s drink?”

“He went up, an’ made like he got confused, and took the wrong drink,” Jerry explains.

“And you thought this was a good idea?”

“Dude, it’s not like he consulted me! He just went for it! He told me after!”

“Okay, okay. Okay. Why didn’t you just take the drink with you?”

Danny’s not really expecting an answer, but Eric mumbles, “’f I didn’t drink from it, I woulda— I woulda hadda give it back to her—”

Danny sighs. Both because that logic isn’t wrong, and because Eric’s looking woozier by the second. “Okay. All right, man, I see where you were comin’ from. You doing okay?”

The kid shakes his head, crookedly, and lists further against Jerry’s shoulder. “Sick,” he mutters.

“I know. Lemme feel your pulse, okay?”

Eric’s arm sways as he lifts it, and goes dead weight the moment that Danny’s got it by the wrist. “Okay. ‘s pretty normal. Tell me you only took a sip—”

In lieu of answering, Eric wrenches his arm away and pukes hugely into the gutter beside him.

Danny sighs, again.

Jerry holds Eric upright while wave after wave gushes out. When the puking’s over, Eric curls up against his friend—who, to his credit, seems largely unfazed. Possibly because of his own non-sobriety. He passes Eric a tissue from his pocket, and whispers quiet instructions when Eric just stares at it instead of using it.

“Okay,” Danny murmurs. “Jerry. How sober are you?”

“Um. Like, I wouldn’t drive right now? But I’m with it.”

“Good. I need you to call an ambulance, and get him to the hospital.”

Eric whimpers, and Danny’s heart breaks a little. “You’re gonna be fine, honey,” he vows, ignoring the vomit on the gutter grate to crouch down at Eric’s side. “We just gotta get your blood tested fast. You know these kind of drugs, they don’t stay too long in your system.”

Eric nods. “Evidence,” he whispers, eyes half-closed.

“Right. So, Jerry? You can do this, yes?”

Jerry waves his phone in response.

“Namedrop Five-0, if you have to, if they’re goin’ to slow. Okay. Which bartender am I arresting?”

(And, wow, this was not what he had planned for the night.)

“Tall guy,” Jerry responds. “Haole.”

“Of course. You catch what he’s wearin’?”

Jerry, being Jerry, did; as he gives Danny the full run-down, Eric nuzzles ever closer. Jerry lifts his arm, tucks Eric underneath.

“All right. Let’s move.”

“Wait!”

At Eric’s voice, Danny crouches again. “Wait, for what?”

“When’y’re done,” Eric slurs. “C’n’ou—c’n you meet us? A’ th’hospital?”

“Yeah. Of course, man. And Jerry’s gonna stay with you the whole time.”

“_Okay_.”

“I gotta get in there, now. We gotta make this happen. We’re gonna get this guy, ‘cause of you.”

“Good idea?”

“_No_. It was a fucking terrible idea. But it’s done, so we’re gonna make good on it.”

This makes Eric whimper again, so Danny leaves Jerry to the task of comforting while he redirects his own anger towards the asshole inside the bar. Fucking prick. Drugging women—drugging his goddamn _nephew_ (even if Eric himself had a large hand in making that happen).

Well. In a couple of minutes, they’ll be one less asshole on the streets of Oahu, thanks to Eric.

The king of bad decisions, honestly. But also of best intentions.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Although they don't get many scenes together, the show has made it pretty clear that Eric and Jerry are friends. And I like to think that their friendship is of the share-one-braincell variety. Other than that, not much to say. This ended up kind of lighthearted despite the topic, but I do have a slightly more H/C one planned for Eric down the line!


	22. Bleeding Out (Danny)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> So much could have gone differently in the last few days. But it didn’t, and now Steve’s pretty sure that his two best friends are always going to be a little bit more broken than they would have been. Coda to 10x14.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Going out of order again (eyeroll emoji).
> 
> Warning for discussion of self-injury.

Steve wakes to the sound of his phone ringing, and has it to his ear before his eyes have even opened.

And this must be why he startles. Because he doesn’t see Danny’s picture pop up, and therefore doesn’t expect to hear the ragged voice of his closest friend—his friend who is supposed to be sleeping only one floor below him.

“Steve?”

“Danny? Where are you?”

“Bathroom,” Danny gets out, as Steve pushes himself out of bed with a wince.

“Why’re you—”

“Think you needa take me—t’th’ hospital,” Danny slurs.

Adrenaline lights up Steve’s body like energy; and in half a second he’s fully awake, and throwing open his bedroom door. “What’s going on?”

“Can’t really breathe—”

Steve’s feet hit the floor after the last stair.

“Think I might’ve—fucked somethin’ up—”

Phone-Danny’s and real-Danny’s voices merge, as Steve hurdles into the bathroom, relieved to see Danny upright on the lid of the toilet, looking mostly alert.

He’s less relieved to see blood at the corner of his mouth.

“Ribs,” Danny gasps. His hands are pressed delicately to the top right of his abdomen, and he nods down at them, like that’s all Steve needs to know.

And it is, really.

“Okay,” Steve murmurs. “All right. You must’ve punctured a lung, buddy. You’re gonna be okay. You think you can walk?”

Danny nods, shakily, and lets Steve help him to his feet. His breathing is too fast, and too shallow, but his color’s good; there’s pros to an ambulance, but cons too, and Steve decides he’ll drive Danny himself. He lets Danny brace himself on his arm, and walks him towards the front door.

“Fuck,” Danny hisses, only a few steps away. “Eddie. Eddie.”

“We’ll call Tani on the way,” Steve replies; he’s not too hot on leaving Eddie, himself, but a probably-collapsed lung takes priority.

“Sorry.” Danny’s voice is weak and slightly waterlogged, and Steve almost reneges and calls for a bus instead. But they’re almost to the truck, and they’ll drive with sirens. He’ll get Danny there faster if they stay the course.

Thankfully it seems to be the right call. Danny stays conscious for the short ride, sobbing with pain a few times but otherwise in control of his breaths. They arrive within minutes.

At the hospital, Steve parks in a definitely-illegal-but-not-blocking-the-ambulances spot; Danny’s hurting too much to snip at him for it. Hurting too much to walk either, it seems. So Steve scoops him up bridal style, and carries him inside as carefully as he can manage.

The next few hours seem to happen all at once. Danny’s not dying, but he’s not okay either; and when a chest tube fails to fully reinflate his lung, x-rays show a sliver of rib still piercing it.

It’s a minor surgery. _Minor_. Steve hangs onto the word almost desperately, as he paces the waiting room and resists the urge to wake Tani up for another Eddie update.

God, it’s been some kind of a day. He’d been used-up already, by worry for his dog—and for Adam too—long before he’d gotten the call to pick Danny up from the scene of the crash. Long, _long_ before the second call, to pick Danny up from the downstairs bathroom.

He lets Tani sleep. But he rereads her update (that Eddie’s doing fine, that they’re snuggling together in Junior’s bed) at least half a dozen times.

“Commander McGarrett?”

Steve snaps to attention.

“Detective Williams is in recovery now,” the doctor informs him, with a reassuring smile. “The surgery went well. Would you like to sit with him?”

Steve nods, and manages to express his gratitude before he’s led to Danny’s side and left there. He tucks up in the visitor’s chair, and sleeps.

*

He wakes to the sound of a nurse taking Danny’s vitals. Thinks about leaving his eyes closed until she’s gone, for privacy; but it seems dishonest, and kind of unnecessary. He blinks, and straightens, drawing everyone’s attention.

_Hey_, Danny mouths. Steve smiles in return.

“All right, Mr. Williams,” the nurse says, drawing away. “Everything looks good. I’ll be back to check on you in a few hours.” And she leaves, and finally they’re alone.

“What time is it?” Steve asks, rubbing his eyes.

“Isn’t that my line?”

Danny’s voice sounds so raw that Steve winces, physically; he hides it by rubbing his eyes some more.

“How’s the pain?”

“It’s a four. And it’s half past seven, by the way.”

“That’s a lot better than the other way ‘round.”

Danny doesn’t dignify the joke with a response, but then again, it hardly deserves one. Steve sighs.

“How you doin’?”

“How ‘m I supposed to be doing?” Danny gestures, the moves vague in their meaning but sharp in their execution. “I watched a woman die yesterday. I looked her in the eyes and promised her she was gonna make it, and then I watched her die.”

He stops speaking, then. It’s about as far as they’d gotten yesterday evening, too, when Steve had tried to talk to him about it the first time.

Steve sighs again, and changes tack—though he doesn’t let the subject itself change entirely. “I was listening to your breathing, y’know. ‘cause you were holding your ribs. But it sounded fine.”

“It was fine. Until it wasn’t.”

“Must’ve fractured it, y’know, like, ninety five percent of the way, and then it just—”

Perhaps unsurprisingly, this not the best conversational direction. Danny swallows hard, looking pale.

“Sorry.”

“’s fine.”

“I’m just glad you were home when it happened. And that you realized, that it had happened.”

“Yeah,” Danny whispers.

And something about the way he says it puts Steve right back on edge.

“I guess the moment was hard to miss?”

Danny just sighs, and kneads a hand across his forehead.

And Steve knows. Knows before the gust of air and emotion has even finished leaving his friend’s battered lungs.

“I broke it.”

“In the crash,” Steve supplies.

“I _fractured_ it in the crash.” Danny hasn’t taken his hand from his eyes. “I _broke_ it last night, in your bathroom.”

Steve crosses his arms, and takes one slow breath. “How?”

“Self-Heimlich, I guess? Would be the best way to describe it?” Now he lowers his arm, but still doesn’t lift his head. “I—slammed myself against the edge of the sink. Until I felt it break.”

Steve nods. “Why?”

“Because I had a bad fucking day," Danny snaps. "Because I felt, for the first time in a long time, a new human connection. I met a pretty girl from New York who ordered me a horrible drink and we had sex in the bar bathroom and I had this moment, this moment of just, _oh, okay, it’s not so bad_. This whole stupid life thing. I can get behind this. And then I offered her a ride home and got run off the road by some schmuck who probably doesn’t know he killed a woman yesterday; we get run off the road and twenty years of trained driving and I can’t keep control of the car, and the pretty girl from New York gets her legs crushed and her back broken open and I watch her bleed out in front of me. I am talking to her and I am looking right in her eyes as the light goes out of them. Ambulance is five minutes out, and she dies. And before she died, I was screaming, Steve. I was screaming for help, I was screaming ‘cause—there was nothing else to do. And when she dies I want to scream again but I can’t. So. Fucking with my ribs is the next best thing I can come up with. So. Yeah. I felt the moment it broke. And right then? Right after? I felt _better_. That’s why.”

Nausea has been thrumming in Steve’s guts for a solid twenty-four at this point. It crests again, and he breathes carefully until it ebbs.

Danny scrubs his face again. “I’m not suicidal.”

“I didn’t say you were,” Steve grunts.

“You had a look on. I didn’t do it to puncture my goddamn lung. I just wanted to feel it.”

Another wave, and Steve briefly entertains the idea of going into the bathroom and shoving his fingers down his throat until he’s brought up all the vomit he can muster. Not because it would help anything. It would just be something to _do_.

“Danny.” Suddenly his voice sounds hoarse, as if he actually had been sick. “Danny, I get it. You don’t have to explain it to me, man. I get it.”

And Danny’s face crumples.

“’s goddamn pointless,” he whispers, as Steve pulls the chair close enough that he can hold Danny’s hand. “It’s—meaningless. It’s so. I could have gone to any other bar on this island. She could have. We could have left one minute later, one minute earlier—”

He’s squeezing hard enough that the bones of Steve’s fingers grind and ache. He doesn’t mind. Silently he adds his own could-have’s to the list.

He could have asked Danny to come home and help with Eddie. He could have asked him not to take the day off at all, what with Lou and Junior both gone.

He could have kept a closer eye on Eddie. Could have never left the door cracked open. His lovely, unknowing neighbor could have unknowingly planted a different species of lovely foreign flower.

So much could have gone differently in the last few days. But it didn’t, and now he’s pretty sure that his two best friends are always going to be a little bit more broken than they would have been.

It’s nothing short of overwhelming. And he cannot ask Danny to comfort him, or Eddie, and Lou’s not there, and Junior’s not there, and Tani’s not somebody he asks for comfort and Adam’s not somebody he asks for comfort anymore and Quinn’s not somebody he asks for comfort yet—

So he swallows it down. He knows how. He rubs Danny’s fingers with his free hand, until Danny’s grip eases, until the tightness on Danny’s face eases too. “Rest. Okay?” Steve urges. “I’m right here. We’ll be home soon.”

“Okay.”

“You need water? Or another blanket—?”

Danny shakes his head, and closes his eyes. “Just wake me up if I look like I’m dreamin’.”

“Okay.”

He opens his fingers, wordlessly offering to let go; but Danny holds on. So Steve holds on, too.

There’s not much he can do, but he’ll do all he can.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I actually did not have a plan for the prompt "bleeding out". So when I realized that I absolutely had to do a coda for this episode, it occurred to me that I could kill two birds with one stone.
> 
> Still planning to finish all these prompts but I've been stupid busy, blah blah, all the usual excuses :)


	23. Secret Injury (Steve)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “I don’t wanna talk about it,” Steve says, by way of greeting. “Just—didn’t wanna be alone.”
> 
> Post 10x19.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I continue to be one prompt off because of not posting #22 ("hallucination") yet. Oh well. It's March 2020 and I'm still doing Whumptober 2019 so I don't know why I'm still stressing about following the "rules".
> 
> That being said, I'm lucky in that my school is closed for two weeks and I am self-isolating probably for that entire period. Which, despite introvert jokes, I'm actually kind of bummed about-- but it's the responsible thing to do if you're able, and I'll hopefully get some writing in!
> 
> I hope you're all well; and that those of you who can stay home, are, and those who can't are taking every precaution!

They’re maybe two-thirds of the way down the mountain when Steve decides that he can’t hold it together any longer. The concussion’s really getting to him, now. And the rhythm of horseback, though he wants to liken it to the gentle sway of the ocean, is really more like sitting right over the tires at the back of a school bus.

He guides his horse to a stop. Swings himself down as carefully as he can, and fastens the animal to a tree.

“Why’re we stopping?” Danny’s voice sounds a little slower fuzzier than it probably should. “Can’t even see the sunset from here—”

“Gotta puke,” Steve grunts. Somewhere above him there’s a muttered _oh_, then the noises of Danny also dismounting.

Steve leans against a nearby trunk, sucks in massive breaths. It’s definitely inevitable; the breathing isn’t an attempt to stop it so much as preparation for how little oxygen he’ll be getting in the next minute or two.

He knows how this goes. He knows it unfortunately well.

He gets a few more decent breathes before he feels the lurch of his insides reversing direction; at that point all it takes is to tilt forward and open his mouth—

And a gallon of slop dumps out of him, without ceremony.

“Jeez,” Danny’s voice mutters, somewhere nearby. “When did you have the chance to eat so much? Out here, riding around for the better part of a day—”

Danny only shuts up when Steve pukes again, and yeah, that’s about how hard it’s always been to stop him talking. Instead the guy sighs. Doesn’t pat Steve on the back, though Steve lets himself imagine that he does.

“You know your name, yeah?”

“Kristofferson,” Steve rasps.

“And me?”

He’s thinking of the worst Kristofferson sidekick when another surge of vomit muscles its way up. He tries to let it out quietly; instead he produces some stupid noisy squawks that would probably make Danny laugh if they were dealing with a hangover in the bathroom and not a concussion in the jungle.

“Right. You get to be Kristofferson, and I’m Ralph.”

And okay, now Steve laughs a little, because that’s a good one. He likes that.

Danny’s still not laughing.

“Why you gotta keep everything a secret?” he asks, once it’s been a minute since the last expulsion.

Steve spits, drags a gloved hand over his mouth. “You think the concussion was a secret? ‘cause I thought it was kind of so obvious that it didn’t need saying.”

“And yet you volunteered to go horseback down a mountain.”

“You’re the one who wouldn’t put the horses on ATVs,” Steve points out, and spits again. His mouth tastes like a leaking trash bag—at least, like he imagines that would taste. Not that he wants to imagine that in too much detail—

“Gotcha,” Danny murmurs, catching him by the elbow as he wobbles upright. “Let me rephrase: you got knocked a little harder than either of us thought, huh?”

“Yeah,” Steve huffs. “Think I did.”

“You know, in a way, that makes me feel better about the sunset thing.”

Steve frowns. He’s still not completely sure of his own footing, so for the moment they just stand together, Danny’s hand steady on his arm. “Don’t get it.”

“You always get emotional when you’re concussed. You get nauseous, and emotional.”

“In other words, I turn into you?” Steve grins; and it feels a little dizzy, but it feels good too.

Danny doesn’t return it.

“Why does it make you feel better, to think that I’m only thinkin’ ‘bout sunsets because of my head?”

“Why?” Danny scoffs. “Because I’m worried about you. _Obviously_.”

“Why?”

“That whole speech didn’t seem a little—Last Lecturey to you?”

“I guess I see where you’d get that from.”

Whether or not he means to, Danny’s thumbing beneath the hem of Steve’s sleeve. “Listen, I don’t bring it up, because I know you don’t want me to—but, the radiation stuff. It hangs over my head too, y’know?”

“I know.”

“And you? You keep secrets too easy. You always have.”

“I’m sorry,” Steve murmurs. And that’s something he doesn’t say a whole hell of a lot, though he still says it a lot more than Danny thinks—and somehow he might mean it more in this instant than he ever has before. “But can we please just—?” He gestures weakly at the horses. “My head could split, man.”

“Yeah,” Danny sighs. “Let’s get you home.”

The rest of the descent passes without incident; so does the journey back to the city, though Danny insists on driving and that’s another layer of queasiness. It’s the right call, though. Steve’s working a little harder than he should have to, to keep his eyes focused, and more than once it occurs to him that they maybe should be heading to the hospital instead.

He doesn’t mention this. All he wants is quiet and a shower, and Eddie, and what’s a doctor going to tell him anyway? _You should really try not to get hit in the head again?_ Concussions aren’t fun, but they are temporary, at least if you’re not worried about living long enough to end up with CTE.

Steve’s not really worried about that.

Finally Danny’s parking the truck at the top of the familiar driveway, and Steve stumbles out and doesn’t let Danny walk him to the door. He’s all right.

(Okay, fine, he does spit up a little in the shower, but afterwards Danny makes him eggs and toast and he manages to keep down every bite.)

And it helps, to be clean. And to have something warm and solid in his stomach. And to curl up on the couch with Eddie’s head in his lap, Danny on the opposite cushion, Junior in the recliner. They watch a movie. Steve has to close his eyes a few times, when the flickering of it gets to be too much; still it’s a comfort, just being in the space they’ve created.

The comfort doesn’t stick with him after he goes to bed. Alone, in the dark, there’s nothing to distract him from the headache; he’s overwhelmed by it, swamped by it, not to mention everything else that was weighing him down already.

He waits as long as he can. Holds his emotions in check a lot longer than he was able to hold his stomach in check, earlier.

Still he can’t keep it together forever.

Squinting, groping, he gets to his phone and pulls up the favorite contacts list. Hits the first name.

“Can’t sleep,” he mutters, when the line connects; his own voice feels intrusive in the quiet room. “Come here.”

There’s a sigh, and the line disconnecting. Then half a minute later there’s footsteps, and the door creaking as Danny pushes it open and shuts it again.

“I don’t wanna talk about it,” Steve says, by way of greeting. “Just—didn’t wanna be alone.”

“Okay.”

In the dim light, he watches Danny amble towards the bed, and settle himself at the edge. Steve moves to sit there too. It calms him almost instantly, to be within range of Danny, and he sags forward and rests his head in his hands.

Not too much later there’s a touch between his shoulder blades. “Hey,” Danny says, with a gentility that’s unusual but somehow still familiar. “Let’s lie down, okay?”

Steve snorts. “You gonna spoon me?”

“Well I was, but now that you said the word out loud, now it’s weird. So no.” His voice is back to normal but his touch is gentler than ever as he coaxes Steve backwards, gets him settled on the bed.

“Don’t like being spooned anyway,” Steve mutters. “Too much like bein’ restrained.”

“That’s healthy. That’s a healthy thought to have.” Danny’s on his back beside him now, and he nods down at his own shoulder. “You rather—?”

Steve would, so fuck it, he does. He puts his head on Danny’s shoulder and lets the rest of his body curl naturally to accommodate it; this ends with him tucked against Danny’s side, arm slung across Danny’s chest. Danny makes a quiet noise of approval.

Positioned like this, he can hear Danny’s heartbeat; it’s a lot slower than Steve’s own, and that by itself is a calming thing.

He can hear the rumble too, an instant before Danny starts to speak.

“You know I wasn’t talking about the concussion. When I was talking about secrets before.”

Steve has to clear his throat a little before responding. “I know.”

“Listen.” Danny’s chest rises beneath Steve’s arm in a long, aching breath. “I know you don’t wanna talk. But listen. You’re going through something. I could guess. But even if I don’t know, it don’t matter. I want you to know that you’ve got me. You’re alone in your head sometimes. I know that, and I’d fix it if I could. But I can’t. But out here, in real life? You’re not alone. You’re just not.”

Nothing comes out when Steve tries to respond, not even a whisper. The best he can do is to pat Danny’s chest. The lack of response makes the man sigh; but then he gets an arm around Steve’s back and hugs him loosely.

It’s a little too much, and Steve pulls back. Takes his arm from across Danny’s torso, and eases out of Danny’s embrace. But he doesn’t turn away. Instead he stays close and presses his eyes to Danny’s shoulder; not entangled but not separated either.

And when he closes his eyes, yes, he’s alone. On his own in that dark little space inside himself, the one he’s all too familiar with. And yet—

Somehow that darkness merges, blurs together with the darkness of his bedroom. And in that space? He’s not alone. He can feel Danny’s presence, surrounding him; and so maybe he’s alone inside his head but somehow that’s just an island in the middle of a great big Danny-ocean.

So maybe he feels alone, but he’s not really.

Maybe his eyes are closed, but he can still feel the warmth of a friend beside him, in the darkness.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Steve just needs a ten-minute-long hug, lbr. And he had better fucking get one onscreen too...


	24. Humiliation (Jerry)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "It’s always made me laugh when people say the only thing hurt is their pride. Bruised pride’s worse than any broken bone.” Jerry whump, set whenever.

The thing is, it’s going well at first. Maybe he’s not gaining on the guy, but he’s keeping time, and that by itself is something; that by itself seems to justify the hours he’s secretly been spending in the gym, not because he thinks he’ll come out the other side with a physique like Steve’s or Danny’s, but because he wants to be able to hold his own in situations like this. And he _is_—

Until he’s not.

Until halfway down the alley he feels his left foot catch, and before he can even try to compensate for the misstep, Jerry’s sprawling gracelessly onto the blacktop.

He tries to get up, but his ankle gives. He falls again, scrapes already bloody knees. Pain and exertion have him seeing stars.

Then, out of nowhere, Junior is sprinting past him, in the direction of the retreating perp, so Jerry hands the situation over and sits back, hard, on the ground.

For a minute or two he just pants for air. His body wants more than his lungs can feasibly provide; his chest aches and his throat burns dryly as he tries to split the difference. Only when his vision finally clears does he begin to assess the rest of it.

And, okay—it’s kind of worse than he’d thought. His left ankle is already swelling, and both knees are abraded and bleeding freely. There’s road rash up his left leg and right hand. And a warm drip down his left arm tells him that his elbow’s scraped up too, though he doesn’t bother to look.

He’s _hurt_. Not life-threateningly injured, not even bad enough for anything besides first aid; but as shock and adrenaline fade, his entire body throbs with pain.

And what’s worse is that he failed. He undeniably, unequivocally, out-and-out _failed_. If Junior weren’t so incredibly fast, a murderer would be getting away right now. And it would be nobody’s fault but his.

It takes a minute for Jerry to pull himself out of this funk for long enough to try to stand; then it takes another few minutes to actually get himself on his feet. His ankle’s so fucked that he has to grit his teeth to keep quiet. He can barely hobble, which sort of doubly sucks, because honestly he’d rather walk the five miles home right now than rejoin the team and admit what happened.

But he barely makes it out of the alley without crying, so. Walking home is definitely not an option.

He gets back to the cars just in time to watch the perp being loaded in; Junior’s there, not the slightest bit winded, along with Steve, Lou, and Tani.

Jerry plasters on a smile before making his way over.

“Well, look who’s decided to join us,” Lou teases, at the same time that Junior says, “I was just about to come looking for you, man.”

“I fell,” Jerry mutters, as though it needed saying.

“Yeah, you’ve looked better, Jer,” Tani replies, though she doesn’t seem worried. Nobody seems worried in the slightest.

Except—Steve?

Out of nowhere there’s a hand on Jerry’s arm, and Steve is looking him over with a frown.

Jerry sighs. “’m fine, commander. Just sorry I wasn’t more help.”

Steve nods slowly, like he’s piecing something together; but all he says is, “let’s clean you up, buddy.”

“I can do it myself,” Jerry replies, a little sharply; then he’s forced to add, “if I can borrow your first aid kit.” He has his own, thanks, but it’s back at HQ.

For a second he thinks Steve will argue, but all the man does is nod and gesture. “It’s in the truck. You need a hand?”

Jerry waves him off—and immediately regrets it when his ankle shrieks in pain. He keeps going anyway.

But the short walk back to the Silverado depletes the last of his resolve; so when Steve opens the passenger door and nods at Jerry to sit, he does so without complaint. Truthfully he’s not sure how good a job he’d do, anyway. His right hand is scraped raw and both his hands (to be perfectly honest) are trembling pretty badly.

Still, to say he’s unhappy with the situation would be an understatement. Sitting sideways in the passenger’s seat, so high off the ground that even his long legs dangle, Jerry feels like a kid waiting in the nurse’s office after getting hurt at recess. And he doesn’t like it _one bit_.

Steve comes to his side from the back of the truck, gargantuan med kit tucked under one arm. Its size is absurd, really, and in a different moment, Jerry would laugh. In this moment, he just scowls.

“How long since your last tetanus booster?” Steve asks, as he cracks the kit open and sets it in the floorwell.

“I don’t remember.”

“If you don’t remember, it’s probably been too long. You ever have a reaction to a vaccine before?”

“No—?” Jerry mutters, and looks down up at Steve for the first time. The guy is holding a vial and a syringe, his expression deadly serious.

Jerry closes his eyes, and lets his head drop against the headrest.

He keeps his eyes shut as Steve pushes back the leg of his shorts; keeps them shut as Steve prods the muscles of his thigh. There’s the cold swipe of an alcohol pad. Then a sting, and a pinch, and the (possibly imagined) sensation of the liquid flooding into his bloodstream.

Then the tackiness of a bandage being applied. Steve smooths his thumb over it, sealing it down—making a few more passes over it than are probably necessary. Which Jerry appreciates, albeit very distantly.

At that point the precedent’s been set. So he keeps his eyes shut and tries to push the world away as Steve takes care of the rest of it too, cleaning and dressing the scratches and scrapes. His touch isn’t quite gentle, but it’s efficient, and clearly expert. In any other circumstance Jerry might be thrilled by such care and attention; now he just clenches his jaw and waits for it to be over.

What finally brings him ‘round is the feeling of tweezers on his skin. He cracks his eyes to see Steve crouched before him, picking carefully at his knee.

Detecting the shift, Steve glances up and half-smiles, warmly. “You’ve got some gravel in here. It’s in pretty deep, but I’m almost done.”

“I can do it, y’know.”

“I know.” Steve’s voice is light. Jerry looks over his handiwork and counts at least seven bandaids now stuck to him in various locations. Nothing warranted anything more than that. Somehow he’d been hoping that something would.

Steve finishes with his knee, and washes and bandages it before standing; though Jerry’s sitting, the truck is so high that they’re basically at eye-level. But Steve doesn’t force eye contact. “All right. One to ten, how’s the ankle now that nobody’s touching it?”

“Um. Three?”

“Okay.”

Before he can brace himself, Steve’s kneeling again, and slipping off both of Jerry’s shoes. First he compares Jerry’s ankles, one hand on each. Then he carefully looks over the left one, pressing a thumb down in a few different spots.

“How’s the pain when I’m touching here?”

“Not much worse,” Jerry mutters—then hisses, reflexively, as Steve moves his thumb.

“Worse there, I take it?”

“Mm-hm.”

“How’s the pain?”

“F-fiveish?”

“_Jerry_.”

“Six,” Jerry admits, “maybe seven.” His eyes are closed again and he’s not sure when that happened.

“Okay.” Steve’s touch disappears, but the pain lingers. “Doesn’t look broken, but sprains, they can hurt even worse. Good news is, no hospital. Bad news is, not much to do but stay off it and be patient.”

“It’s not that bad when you’re not p-poking it.”

If Steve picks up on the heat in Jerry’s words, he graciously doesn’t react to it.

“All right. How you feelin’, overall?”

Honestly? The playground-injury feeling hasn’t quite dissipated, and the little kid remnants in his psyche are still telling him to cry about it. The urge, though well-suppressed, just adds to the humiliation.

“Embarrassed,” Jerry mutters, staring down at his bare feet.

“Hey, man, you’re not the first one of us to wipe out, chasing a suspect. You won’t be the last.”

“I,” Jerry huffs. “I don’t really wanna talk about it?”

“I’m sorry.” Steve’s reply is immediate. “I didn’t—I didn’t realize it actually shook you up.”

“I’m not shaken up!” Jerry snaps. “Like I said, I’m just embarrassed, and I’d rather forget that the whole thing ever happened!”

“Jerry—”

“Look, I get it, okay? My role here is to be the cheerful fat guy, I get that. But Jesus, can I just be in a bad mood for one freaking day?”

He’s shaking again. All he wants to do it bolt, but that’s not an option; instead he presses one trembling hand to his forehead and pushes knuckles into his eye sockets.

And it floods over him, anew. What a miserable job he did today; what a pathetic turn of events that’s left him to be cleaned up like a child. And the fact that everyone knows. The whole team knows how useless he really is, when it comes down to it, and most of them have even gotten to watch him limp back to the cars with two bloody knees and tears in his eyes—

Then there’s a touch on his legs. Jerry opens his eyes to find Steve standing close, one hand apiece on Jerry’s lower thighs, just above the bandages. His voice, when he speaks, is just as gentle.

“Jerry, your role here is to think outside of the box. Okay? Your role is to come at things from a different angle than the rest of us. _And_ to do research. _And_ understand computers, and strategy, and to know what kinda seems like everything about everything. That’s your role here.”

Jerry swallows, hard, before he can respond. “I’m sorry. I know I’m overreacting.”

“Well, are you reacting to getting scraped up? Or to being embarrassed?”

“Um. Embarrassed.”

“Then I wouldn’t say you’re overreacting. Listen, it’s always made me laugh when people say the _only_ thing hurt is their pride. Bruised pride’s worse than any broken bone.”

“Yeah. Um. Can I just have a ride home, please?”

And, maybe surprisingly, Steve shuts up and complies.

There’s silence on the drive, leaving Jerry to stew, uninterrupted, in his foul temper. He watches life go on outside the window and just _sulks_. A few times he considers clawing his way up from the funk but honestly that’s it’s own type of embarrassing, and he decides each time to just stay quiet and try to sleep and reset overnight. And hope that Steve will never mention any of this again.

The drive seems interminable, but finally they reach Jerry’s apartment. With care, he slips his shoes back on. Then he opens the door and contemplates the walk, up the long drive, up the steps.

“You wanna lean on me?”

“No. Thanks.”

“I could come inside, help you set up. You should be off that ankle as much as you can be.”

“I’ve got it.” There’s no heat in his voice anymore, just exhaustion. “Thanks for the ride.”

He can tell that Steve wants to say more; part of him wants that, too. But neither of them does. Jerry climbs carefully out of the truck, shuts the door, and makes the slow, painful journey up to his apartment.

Only when his key turns in the lock does he hear Steve pulling away.

In the kitchen he takes some Advil and finds a bag of frozen veggies to use as an icepack. His plan to take this (and some beers) back to the couch. But his ankle has apparently held up as long as it plans to, and he teeters, and sits down on the tile to avoid falling.

He could get up. Hop on his good foot, or even crawl, if he really had to.

But he doesn’t have to. There’s nobody around to see him be pathetic; and that’s how he ends up settling, back against his kitchen island, foot propped on an upturned pot with the frozen veggies on top.

He has his phone. He could read or watch Netflix, or catch up on his message boards.

Instead he just sits, and glares at the dust bunnies under the fridge.

When his phone buzzes on the tile, he considers not even checking it; whatever it’s going to be is something he doesn’t feel like dealing with now. If it’s Mom or Izzy, he doesn’t have the energy. If it’s someone from the team trying to check in on him, he doesn’t need it; and if it’s someone on the team asking for help, well.

They don’t need him. Not really. And if he never answers, they’ll work that out soon enough.

But, like it has most of his life, curiosity wins in the end.

Jerry taps at his phone, sees a message from Steve; opens it to see a massive block of text. Something inside him flutters, though he can’t quite place the emotion. He gives himself half a minute, just to breathe and to prepare himself; then he picks up his phone. And reads:

_Hey Jerry. Don’t feel like you have to reply to this if you’re not up for it. I know you said that you just want to forget about today, and believe me I understand what that’s like. But I know you’re upset and I know it’s probably more than just what it looks like on the surface, so I just wanted to reach out and remind you that I’m here to talk if you want. And if not that’s all right. But I keep coming back to what you said about your role in five-0, and I just need you to know how much I disagree. You are, in a word, invaluable. So what if you can’t run a man down the way Junior can? Junior can’t piece together cases the way you can. I could name a dozen cases where YOU have been the tipping point. My head still spins when I think about Susanna Tupela and the fact that you worked a case WITHOUT SUPPORT for over three decades. And SOLVED it. You are allowed to have a bad day. You are more than allowed to be in a bad mood sometimes. But please stop questioning your importance to your team. Please trust me when I say that you would not have that badge if you didn’t deserve it. That is a PROMISE. Rest, ice, & elevate the ankle. If you feel you need to see a dr just let me know the time. If I don’t hear anything from you I will assume that it’s okay for me to pick you up tomorrow around 8 since you don’t have your car there. Try to get a good night’s sleep. -Steve_

Jerry gets through it (twice) without much in the way of reaction. But gradually he feels Steve’s words sinking in, permeating his hastily-erected barriers and worming their way right to his core.

Something’s been gathering for a while now. A few hours—or maybe, if he’s being honest, a while longer. And, alone in his apartment, there’s no reason to hold it back; so Jerry rests his head in his hands and cries.

Cries like a little kid hurt on the playground. Like a grown man worried he’d let his team down—but who, apparently, hasn’t.

Then he reads Steve’s text again, and cries a little more.

And when it’s over he feels—better. Honestly, almost unbelievably, _better_. His ankle is throbbing and his knees sting and now he kind of has a headache, but none of that bothers him.

He fucked up. He fucked up and proved himself to be a very sore loser, all in front of Steve; and Steve’s response?

_You’re invaluable_.

Steve’s response was to call Jerry _invaluable_. And although part of him wants to think it’s just empty words, Steve doesn’t _do_ empty words. If he says it, he means it.

He _means it_.

Jerry gropes on the counter above him until he finds some paper towels; he tugs them down, and uses them to blows his nose a good half-dozen times. When that’s done he finally, hesitantly, gets to his feet.

And it hurts. But ice and elevation (and meds) must have helped somewhat, because he can put a little weight on his left foot again. Enough to make it to the couch, at any rate.

So he gets those beers. Shuffles through to the living room and grabs the remote, too, before curling up and setting an alarm for three hours from now. Emoting has kind of drained him. Between that and the alcohol he’ll almost definitely be taking a nap here, but when the alarm goes off he promises himself he’ll go and sleep in his actual bed.

And reset. He’ll rest, and reset.

And tomorrow he’ll have a better day.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hope you're all staying safe and sane! This is my third day of self-isolation and it's been the first day I started to feel the weight of it. Spent a few hours reading news articles, then a few more hours just laying in bed, depressed and with no responsibilities to get up for. I definitely need to stick to more of a routine, and I think writing will certainly be part of that! Wishing you all the best <3


	25. Hallucinations (Jerry)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Just make sure my mom knows I didn’t do it,” Jerry whispers. “And please, find out. Please find out who killed me.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So. Here's the monster. Here's the reason that chapter 22 is coming so badly out of order. HOLY CRAP. This thing RAN AWAY on me. Even at over 9k words I still feel like I left too much out and ended too abruptly! But I don't care! I buckled down two weeks ago and told myself I couldn't write anything until this was done. The result? For two weeks I didn't write ANYTHING. Ugh. Anyway. Here she is...
> 
> Warning for discussion of mental illness, mostly off-screen discrimination of MI

It’s just before nine on Monday morning, when Steve makes the transition from annoyed to actually worried. Jerry’s a little scatterbrained sometimes, and he’s been late before. But, what with how hard their case was on Saturday, and how badly it ended, and what with Jerry not answering Steve’s text yesterday afternoon—

He pings Jerry’s cell phone. It shows up immediately, safely inside his apartment, and for a while that makes Steve feel better.

Then, after not-too-long, it doesn’t anymore.

Just because Jerry’s cell phone is safely in his apartment, doesn’t mean Jerry is; and if they’re both there, then why won’t he _answer_ Steve’s calls—?

After the fourth failed attempt, he puts his own phone down a bit too hard.

“Go check on him, already,” Danny mutters. Not that Steve needed to be convinced; he’s already taking out his keys.

*

Jerry’s home. That’s not hard to work out: his car’s out front, and his lights are on. So the doorbell going unanswered is its own cause for concern.

Steve calls again. He rings the doorbell, then pounds on the door; before long he starts shouting Jerry’s name. Still no answer.

And maybe if he didn’t have this _curdling_ feeling in the depths of his guts, he’d leave it be, but as it is—

He kicks Jerry’s door in.

Two things become clear in the same instant; one is that Jerry’s alive. The other is that Jerry’s covered in blood. Steve’s on his knees before the door even stops slamming, finding the gash on Jerry’s arm and applying pressure with an easy-to-reach throw blanket.

In all of this Jerry himself only watches, eyes dull. He’s on the floor, splayed back against the couch like a doll slid down from its shelf. His shirt and pants are soaked with blood. But there’s only a spot or two on his opposite hand, like he might have probed the wound a little, but did absolutely nothing to staunch it.

Steve moves the blanket just long enough to see what they’re dealing with.

The line is straight: unhesitating, if amateurish. It cuts down the middle of Jerry’s forearm, running the length from wrist to inner elbow.

A bit more force behind the blade, and Steve would have come upon a very different scene.

He pushes the image from his mind. Keeps pressure again with one hand, while he takes out his phone with the other; orders an ambulance the moment the line connects.

In all this, Jerry just watches. His features are like clay in their heaviness and dispassion, and Steve’s heart feels as hopelessly broken as an egg dropped on the kitchen floor.

“I’m sorry, Jerry,” he murmurs, keeping pressure. “I didn’t know. But I’m here now.”

“Didn’t know what?”

His voice is dry and brittle, but for him to respond is a relief in itself.

“I didn’t know you were feeling so bad,” Steve replies. He gives—or at tries to give—a friendly smile. “I didn’t know, but now I do.”

“I wasn’t feeling bad.”

“Oh. I just meant—”

“I wasn’t feeling bad,” Jerry repeats. His head lolls. “I felt a little sick last night, but I didn’t know it was serious. I would’ve called you, if I had.”

“Right,” Steve murmurs. “Okay. That’s okay, man. No harm done.”

“Do people think I knew?”

“What do you mean?”

“Is that what people are saying?”

“I don’t think I understand—”

“I didn’t kill myself.”

“_Jerry_,” Steve whispers.

“Is that what people think?”

“No, nobody thinks you killed yourself.”

“I didn’t. I wouldn’t.”

“Okay. Okay, listen, I’m gonna— I’m gonna make sure that everybody knows that. Nobody is going to think you killed yourself, okay?”

Jerry nods.

“Can you tell me what happened?”

“I dunno. Poison, probably?”

Steve’s insides turn to ice.

“Jerry. Did you take something?”

“No.” There’s still no emotion in Jerry’s voice or expression—and if there’s anything, it’s only irritation. “I didn’t want to die. But I woke up and I was already, and it was just taking too long.”

“What was taking too long?”

“Moving on? Or whatever. It had been hours, and I was still here. And I thought: I don’t know if I’ll just disappear, or if I’ll go somewhere. And if I do, what’ll it be like? But it doesn’t matter. I got tired of waiting.”

“You got tired of waiting.”

“I know it sounds strange.” Jerry’s voice is soft, but not gentle. “Most people are scared to die. But I needed it to be over.”

“Okay. Okay, Jerry.”

“Just make sure my mom knows I didn’t do it,” Jerry whispers. “And please, find out. Please find out who killed me.”

*

There’s no poison in Jerry’s bloodwork.

Actually, he’s in pretty good shape, chemically; despite the pain and the blood loss, his stats are more or less normal.

That’s the good news. The bad news is that his arm more fucked-up than anticipated.

Steve expected stitches—maybe a tetanus booster, or antibiotics. But they take Jerry to surgery within an hour of his initial assessment. He’s cut tendons; he’s severed arteries. They’re small arteries, the doctors explain—nothing that would have killed him with any expediency. But also nothing that can be patched up with external sutures.

Steve sits in the waiting room and drinks coffee until his hands shake and his stomach seethes. His watch tells him it’s barely 1400h. Everything else tells him it should be closer to midnight.

*

The surgery goes well. They let him sit with Jerry as he slowly comes awake, looking confused but not really concerned.

A hospital staff sits with them, too. Jerry’s on active suicide watch— which seems slightly absurd, given that all he’s doing is staring at his feet. The nurse (nurse’s aid?) stares at her clipboard. Steve tries, with moderate success, not to stare too long at any one thing.

“Are you hungry?” he asks, eventually. He’s hoping for a _yes_, of course, but really he just wants some noise in the silent room.

Jerry blinks up at him. “I don’t eat now,” he replies, quietly.

“I don’t understand, Jer.”

“I know. It’s always hard to understand.” He offers a tiny smile, then; and though it’s clearly for Steve’s specific benefit, it only makes him feel worse. “But I’ll be all right, soon.”

“What’s gonna happen soon?”

“I’m not sure.” The smile’s gone now. “I know what I hope will happen. But I guess anything’s better than being stuck halfway.”

The nurse writes something on her clipboard; and Steve’s stomach burbles anew. This is a misunderstanding. It has to be.

Jerry doesn’t _want_ to die. He just thinks—

The door opens.

A doctor, a woman about their age, enters; she greets them both, then takes the nurse’s clipboard and looks it over. She checks Jerry’s vitals for herself. Then she pulls up a chair and flips through some papers on the clipboard.

“Steve McGarrett?”

“That’s me.”

“You’re listed here as a health care proxy—I take it from your expression that you didn’t know that.”

“No, I didn’t,” Steve replies.

“What’s your relationship to Mr. Ortega?”

“We’re friends. Cops on the same task force.”

“And both of you are comfortable with Mr. McGarrett’s presence during this conversation?”

“Of course,” Steve snaps, and Jerry nods.

That seems to satisfy the doctor, and she moves on, even as Steve’s left thinking about the implications of her words. He’s Jerry’s proxy—_him_? It leads, inevitably, to some uncomfortable truths about how many people the guy’s got left on the island. It seems he has folks to spend time with. But the fact is that he’s a plane ride away from every single member of his family, as well as his closest friend.

Maybe he’s been lonelier than Steve noticed—

With effort, Steve wrenches himself out of his own head and back into the conversation. The doctor’s taking Jerry’s history now, pen poised above the clipboard.

“When did you start feeling unwell?”

Jerry stares at his feet some more. “Last night.”

“Can you tell me more about how it started?”

“I just felt strange,” he replies. “I threw up a few times. And I felt tired; kind of weak. Thought it was just a bug. But I woke up this morning, and I realized that—”

“What did you realize?”

“That I’d died. I guess in my sleep.”

“You died in your sleep.” To her credit, her voice remains steady, impartial.

“Steve called to check on me. But I didn’t answer because I didn’t realize that I could still use the phone.”

“All right.” She seems to think for a moment. “Can you tell me about this morning? About what happened to your arm?”

Jerry tells the same story he told Steve earlier: about how it was taking too long, how he just wanted to move on already. He sounds as genuine as he did the first time. It makes Steve feel better about the unlikelihood of an actual suicide attempt; but if it’s not that, then—what the fuck is going on?

“I want to make sure that I understand this,” the doctor says, patiently. She puts her pen down, and tries in vain to meet Jerry’s eyes. “You’re telling me that you’re dead.”

Jerry blinks at his feet.

“You passed away some time in the night.”

Jerry nods.

The doctor gestures to the screen of the EKG; this time she manages to draw Jerry’s gaze. “Do you know what that machine is monitoring?”

“My heartbeat.”

“Do you understand that it shows your heart is beating normally?”

“Yes.”

“Do you think that the machine is incorrect?”

“I don’t know,” Jerry whispers.

“All right. There’s a needle in your hand.” She gestures to Jerry’s IV. “Do you know what that’s for?”

Jerry nods. “You’re embalming me.”

“No, that’s a drip. To keep you hydrated, keep your electrolytes in check.”

Sudden emotion flickers in Jerry’s eyes; it’s gone just as quickly. “When will you start the embalming?”

The doctor smiles thinly, tiredly. “Mr. McGarrett. Can I speak to you privately please?”

Steve’s head spins a little; maybe from being pulled back so abruptly, or maybe just from all of it. “Yeah,” he mutters. He pushes to his feet (which doesn’t help with the spinning) and follows the doctor into the hallway. They pause a few feet down from the door.

Not until he’s away from Jerry does Steve realize how exhausted he’s feeling; he crosses his arms and stiffens his back, fighting the urge to sag against the wall. “What the hell is wrong with him?” he asks, before the doctor can even speak.

“Based just on this, I couldn’t say. I’m seeing at least three different avenues we’ll need to explore.”

“He thinks he’s _dead_!” Steve can’t quite keep the heat from his voice. “Is he high?”

“We ran the full spectrum when you arrived, because of your concerns over poisoning. Everything’s negative.”

Steve nods. The discomfort in his stomach is actual pain by now, and he fights not to rub under his waistband, or fold up protectively.

Still the ache must show on his face, because the doctor softens, visibly. “There are multiple drugs that don’t show up in blood or urine. Hallucinogens especially. Antipsychotics might help, but we need baseline tests before we start them. I’m ordering neurological scans, see if we can rule out the possibility of a lesion or other anatomical issues in the brain. And in the meantime, a psychiatrist will be coming for a consult.”

Steve nods. It goes on for maybe a split second longer than it should.

The doctor smiles. It occurs to Steve that he either never caught her name—or maybe he just never internalized it. “Mr. McGarrett, not to step out of bounds. But you might want to get a cup of coffee, or take a lap around the floor before you go back in. He needs you at your best.”

And she gives his arm a squeeze, and leaves.

Steve takes a very slow, very deep breath, as he plots his next move. More coffee is the absolute last thing he needs right now, but he agrees in principle. So he hits up the vending machine for a bottle of water. Finds a small, empty waiting area, sinks into a chair, and sets a mental five-minute timer for calming himself down.

Somewhat inevitably, he just ends up thinking.

Three different avenues to explore; if Steve’s keeping score correctly, these are drugs, a brain tumor, and a psychological break.

How is _drugs_ the best-looking option?

At best, it would mean Jerry was accidentally exposed to the substance. At worst it would mean he actually took something (a termination-worthy offense) or was dosed intentionally (a frightening and infuriating prospect).

But what it would also mean? Is that Jerry’s not sick. Not sick, and not crazy. There’d be a chance, maybe even a good chance, that if they kept him safe and hydrated for a couple of days, his body would metabolize the shit, and he’d come out of it.

God, Steve hopes it’s drugs.

But what kind of drug does _this_?

When his five minutes run out, Steve’s still not any calmer internally. But externally he’s back in control, and that’s all he really needs for now. He heads back. Uses the walk to try to formulate the questions he’d like to ask Jerry himself—but when he returns, Jerry isn’t alone.

Another doctor, an older woman, is standing at the foot of Jerry’s bed. She smiles when Steve enters the room, and turns to Jerry. “Is this who we’re waiting for?”

Jerry nods.

“Steve? I’m Nancy Kealoha.” The doctor extends her hand and Steve shakes it. “I’m the psychiatrist you’ve been expecting, and I’d like to ask you both some questions. If that’s all right?”

Jerry nods again. It doesn’t escape Steve that, despite the emptiness of his expression, he shrinks in on himself a little; so Steve pulls the chair as close to the bed as it will go, before sitting down.

To begin with, Kealoha asks the same questions as before. Steve listens once again to Jerry’s story, about feeling sick last night, and waking up dead this morning; it’s no easier to hear the third time around.

She asks a few other questions. Has Jerry been in an accident, or had a concussion recently? Has he been having headaches? Has he ever had seizures, or been diagnosed with epilepsy?

And then she smiles, and asks exactly what Steve’s been anticipating, for a while now.

“Jerry, have you ever been diagnosed with schizophrenia?”

“No.”

“Has anyone in your family ever been diagnosed?”

Jerry answers the question with the same factual tone that he’s used for the rest.

“Yes.”

“Who?”

“My grandfather.”

“Mom’s side or dad’s side?”

“Mom’s,” Jerry replies, and Steve bites back a sigh. He prides himself on knowing a lot about his friends, and even more about his team, but he’s sure he never knew this.

“Okay,” Kealoha continues. “Do you know how old he was when he was diagnosed?”

“No.”

“Was it before or after your mother was born?”

“After.”

“Okay. And did you ever meet your grandfather?”

“No.”

“He died before you were born?”

“No,” Jerry replies. “He and my mom didn’t get along.”

“She never took you to meet him?”

Jerry shakes his head.

“Do you know why?”

“My uncle,” Jerry begins, and trails off before starting again. “My uncle said she was embarrassed. That it wasn’t because of anything big, she just— was tired of dealing with it. Sorry, but— why does it matter? Schizophrenia isn’t something you die from. My dad died of a heart attack. Isn’t that more relevant?”

Kealoha smiles, patiently. “Jerry, why do you think I’m asking you these questions?”

“Figure out cause of death, right?”

Steve can’t help it; as much evidence as there is to the contrary, part of him still thinks that just _asking the right question_ will snap the guy out of this. “Does this seem like an autopsy to you, Jer?”

“I guess it’s easier this way,” Jerry replies. “Since I can still move and stuff. It makes it easier.”

“Okay.” Steve bites back a sigh. “Okay.”

Kealoha makes to stand. “Steve, can we speak for a moment?”

Steve nods; and for the second time today he trails a doctor into the hallway. He knows a little more this time. But somehow, in this case, knowing more only makes him feel worse.

This time, he lets himself lean. “What’s goin’ on with him, doc?”

The doctor nods, standing with her clipboard against her chest. “The belief that you’re dead is a documented psychiatric condition. It’s known as Cotard’s delusion. It’s unusual, but it has been studied.”

Steve nods, absorbing this. On one hand, it’s a relief to know that what Jerry’s experiencing has a name; on the other, it makes it that much more real.

Kealoha continues. “As you can probably guess, it doesn’t exist in a vacuum. It can follow a traumatic brain injury; result from a lesion in the brain; or it can be a symptom of schizophrenia or psychotic depression.”

“He hasn’t been injured recently.”

“Right. And we’re waiting on the brain scans to rule that out.”

“So, in the meantime—”

“In the meantime, we look into the psychiatric.” She holds her clipboard out again. “And so on that topic, I have to ask, have you noticed anything recently? Any unusual behavior, moods, paranoias? Fantastic thoughts?”

Steve sighs, because there’s no point in lying. “Jerry’s always been a bit off the mark.”

“Oh? How so?”

“He’s a—”

The phrase _conspiracy theorist_ dies on Steve’s lips. It’s not an epithet; it’s a self-identification that Jerry’s never shown the slightest bit of shame towards. Still it seems—reductionist? And maybe just a little incriminating, for the moment.

“He’s a quirky guy,” Steve finishes, instead. “Computer whiz. Into comic books, sci fi. You know. And yeah, in the time I’ve known him, he’s definitely come up with some stuff that’s seemed—implausible. Uh. But a lot of the times, he’s actually been right, so—”

“_Just because you’re paranoid doesn’t meant they aren’t after you_?” Kealoha smiles. “Joseph Heller wrote that.”

“Right. One time he was sure that this antique book dealer was running a counterfeiting op. Bugged me for months to help with surveillance. It took me a while to listen.” Steve snorts. “Turns out, not _only_ was this guy a counterfeiter, he was living under an alias, hiding from a court martial by the British government and counterfeiting money to fund the IRA. So that’s, uh, that’s Jerry. He’s actually got a pretty good track record of _not_ being crazy.”

“Steve. Can I interject for a moment?”

Steve falters, realizing for the first time how much his voice had intensified. “Uh, sure.”

“I’m not here to pin a label on your friend and wash my hands of him. Whatever’s going on, I’m here to help. Just like you are. I just want a picture of Jerry, from somebody who knows what he’s like. No judgements.”

And she seems so sincere that Steve untenses, and takes an actual breath for maybe the first time all day.

“Right. Well.” He hears his own voice softening. “I know he has issues with anxiety. He’s kinda been through some stuff. He witnessed a murder as a kid, and that kind of thing sticks with you, y’know? But normally, he’s—fine. He’s actually better adjusted than a lot of guys I know. He’s got friends, hobbies. He pays rent, goes grocery shopping—”

But in his rush to list all the _normal_ things that Jerry does, it occurs to Steve, forcefully:

It hasn’t always been that way.

Just five years ago, Jerry wore a disguise when leaving the house and wouldn’t let anyone address him by name in public.

It had seemed funny then. Now, the fact that he was ever amused by it makes Steve feel sick.

“Something else on your mind?”

“I was just thinking,” Steve mumbles, then shakes himself. “His anxiety’s gotten a lot better, in the past few years. But I was thinking about the fact that it did used to be, uh, worse. Bad enough that he did kind of isolate himself.”

“All right. What kind of isolation are we talking about?”

“Uh. No job. Didn’t really leave the house. And it was weird because, talking to him, from the first time I met him, he was such a friendly guy, right? It wasn’t like he was afraid of interaction. He just— didn’t trust the world at large, I guess. _Paranoia_ is actually the perfect way to describe it.”

Steve falls silent, then. Kealoha’s been taking notes, and he swallows back the urge to ask to see them. Instead he clears his throat and asks, “so you think this is— organic?”

“What do you mean?”

“You don’t think— cause the other doctor said, it might still be drugs? Like, he might’ve taken something, or been dosed with something? But you think this is more of a chronic situation?”

The doctor smiles. “I think it’s a possibility. But even if that is the case, there are treatments. We’ve learned a lot in recent decades. And it’s clear that Jerry has his people on his side, and that helps tremendously.”

Kealoha excuses herself soon after this. Steve shuffles back into the room, to find Jerry sleeping; it catches Steve off guard for a moment, though honestly, he should really be surprised that it hadn’t happened sooner. Jerry’s had a long damn day. From an outsider’s perspective, he slit his wrist and had surgery; from his own perspective, he literally died.

A long day indeed.

And, honestly? Steve’s had a long day too.

So, when he gets home, maybe what he _should_ do is call Danny. Give an update on Jerry, get an update about team; go for a swim, since he’s been sitting most of the day. Cook a big healthy dinner, since he missed lunch.

But what Steve does do is take a shower, eat some leftovers, and go to bed.

*

In the morning, Steve swings by the Palace to check in in person. Then he heads back to the hospital, signs in as a visitor, and is allowed back up to Jerry’s room.

Jerry’s not there. It takes a few minutes for Steve to track down somebody who knows, but eventually he’s told that Jerry’s been taken an MRI; so Steve settles in the armchair by the window, and waits.

And tries to think positively. What he really should be praying for, now, is that the scans come back clean; if Jerry’s dealing with a mental illness, it won’t be easy, but it won’t be a death sentence either.

Still there’s an image he can’t get out of his head. Something he hadn’t thought of in years, but which had kept him awake for hours last night.

Not long after the counterfeiting case had come Steve’s own kidnapping. The drugs and the torture that he endured at Wo Fat’s hands had taken him to some pretty traumatic places— or, more precisely, some pretty wonderful places that it had been a trauma to leave. Five years later and he’s still sorting through it. And one image had been more or less lost in the shuffle, deprioritized by his mind as he tried to process everything else.

Now it’s burned behind his eyes.

He’d seen Jerry, living on the streets; Jerry rocking back and forth, mumbling to himself. Jerry, gone classically _crazy_.

Maybe his subconscious had been trying to warn him, all along.

*

Steve nods off waiting; he wakes to the sound of a wheelchair across the floor, and a quiet intake of breath. When he opens his eyes, Jerry’s staring right at him. He doesn’t look away, not once, as the nurse settles him back in bed and leaves. Steve does his best to smile back.

“You’re here?”

“Yeah, I just, I went home last night. Came back as soon as visiting hours started.”

“Right. Sorry. I just— I didn’t expect you to come back here.”

Something in the way he says _here_ tips Steve off; he rises from the armchair, and settles in the plastic chair by Jerry’s bed.

“Jerry, where are we right now? Where’s this?”

“I’m not sure. At first I thought I was still, like, around. In the same place. But now I think maybe this is purgatory. Or something like that.”

“What about me? How am I with you, if this is purgatory?”

Emotion flickers in Jerry’s eyes. “I didn’t think you were. I guess I’m still not sure.”

“You’re not sure that I’m with you?”

“Maybe they’re letting you visit? But maybe—maybe I’m just seeing you? Maybe I’m just trying to feel less alone? So when you left, I thought—”

And it occurs to Steve, though it probably should have sooner: whatever the cause, to Jerry, this is real.

He’s dead. And before long, he’s going to be gone.

“What did you think?” Steve prompts, quietly.

Jerry smiles; it’s watery, but it’s the first real warmth that Steve’s seen from him in days. “That I wouldn’t see you anymore. But, you’re back. I don’t think I would make up that you came back.”

“You didn’t make up anything, Jer. I’m really here.” And to prove it, Steve reaches out and grasps Jerry’s hand.

Jerry squeezes back, so hard that it aches at first. His mouth works, starting and stopping a few times before he finally gets out any sound. “I’m scared.”

“Well,” Steve replies, “I’m not going anywhere.”

*

He doesn’t. From that moment he leaves Jerry’s side only for using the bathroom or getting himself food— and even that feels irresponsible. That evening he calls Danny just to bring him the go-back from his truck.

When Danny enters the room, Jerry takes a good long look at him, and turns away without saying hello.

*

The scans come back clean. And after two full days in the hospital, Jerry hasn’t improved in the slightest; Steve isn’t holding out much hope, anymore, that the cause of this all could be chemical. By now the situation seems very long-haul. They have an appointment today, to lay out and begin Jerry’s regime of medication.

Nobody’s questioned Steve’s ongoing presence, at least. Last night he’d pulled the armchair over and slept holding Jerry’s hand; far from scolding him for ignoring visiting hours, one of the nurses had brought him breakfast. The doctor who brings the scan results speaks more to Steve than to Jerry.

Jerry isn’t very receptive now, anyway; mostly he lies still, staring at nothing. Steve would use the word _catatonic_, if not for the fact that he himself can still rouse Jerry to brief conversations. He does so once in a while, just for the reassurance. Offers Jerry food, water, books, Netflix; Jerry rejects everything, of course, but at least he raises his head up and speaks words to do so.

Dr. Kealoha arrives in the early afternoon. She reviews the scans with them a second time, asks Jerry a few new questions; then she hands Steve some photocopies, of a type he’s quite familiar with.

“This is the fact sheet for olanzapine,” she explains. She offers one to Jerry too; he doesn’t take it. “It’s one of our first go-to’s when we start a patient on antipsychotics.”

“Is this an official diagnosis, then?”

“No. That can take some time. But now that we have our baseline scans, there’s no reason to delay the meds. And, this is a pretty broadly used drug. It should help, no matter what the final diagnosis is.”

They run through side effects and warnings, then finally expectations; in the best-case scenario, there could be improvement within hours. More likely, though, it’ll be days (and, possibly, weeks).

“What I should do in the meantime?”

“What should you do?”

“How can I— best help?”

The doctor smiles, more patiently than Steve would like. “You keep doing what you’re doing. He can use the anchor.”

“Anything specific?”

“Actually, yes. See if you can get him to eat a little. I’d like to avoid an NG tube, if we can.”

Right. Because Jerry hasn’t eaten since dinner on Sunday; and the way he tells it, he didn’t keep that down, anyway. It’s Wednesday now. Which means Jerry’s going on a full 72 hours without any food. His drip’s keeping him hydrated. But hydration alone isn’t a long term solution; and it isn’t exactly great for Jerry’s mental health, to go without real food, even if that alone wouldn’t kill him.

Not too much later a tray’s delivered to Jerry’s room. Dinner is baked ziti, roasted veggies, and pudding, and it doesn’t actually look too bad, all things considered.

Jerry glowers at it like it offends him personally.

“Thought they’d realized to stop bothering,” he remarks, voice flat as ever. Then he sighs, and looks up at Steve. “Go ahead. Say it.”

“I need you to try. Just a little bit.”

Jerry snorts humorlessly. “Could count on one hand the amount of times somebody’s actually wanted me to eat.”

“I know you’re not hungry,” Steve says, ignoring the comment. Because honestly? He doesn’t know what to say when Jerry gets down on himself in the best of times— and these are not the best of times. “I’m sorry, man. But listen. Have you ever had an NG tube? ‘cause I have, and they _suck_.”

“What’s it matter?”

“It matters because you need food.”

“I _don’t_, though.”

“You might not feel it. But you need to keep your strength up—”

“Steve,” Jerry interrupts, voice sharper than usual. “Agree to disagree.”

“No. I still disagree.” Tired of making his point verbally, Steve stands, pushes the tray table as close as it will go, and stabs Jerry’s fork into the noodles before sitting back down.

Arms crossed, he stares expectantly.

Jerry eyes the fork with unbridled disgust. Bringing it closer to himself, then pulling away again, like someone with an awful hangover trying to talk themselves into taking a tequila shot. Steve’s been there. Maybe not the tequila part— at least not recently— but between the radiation and the liver meds’ side effects, he’s been sick enough to make nausea his literal enemy on plenty of occasions. So yeah, he recognizes the struggle. The overwhelming sense that if you put that stuff in your mouth, you’ll instantly puke. Or maybe just cry. And _forget_ about swallowing it—

But Jerry’s _not_ sick. So Steve won’t be cowed. He raises an eyebrow and steadies his gaze, until Jerry brings the fork to his lips, at last. 

He gets down exactly three bites. The instant he puts the fourth in his mouth, he gags; and for a moment Steve prays he’s just being dramatic.

Yeah— okay, he’s not.

Steve snags the wastebasket from the floor, and holds it under Jerry’s chin; he spits the food out, then, to Steve’s dismay, retches. Pukes up the couple of bites he’d gotten down. Steve rubs his back as he heaves dryly for another half-minute; then, when it seems safe, he takes the wastebasket away.

“I told you I don’t eat anymore,” Jerry rasps. Steve ignores this— and the guilt of insisting that he try— and gets him a tissue to wipe his mouth. “I don’t need food. I’m dead.”

“_Jesus_,” Steve snaps, “you’re not _dead_, Jerry! You’re—”

He sighs. Reigns in the sudden flare of temper before he uses a word he’ll regret later.

“You’re sick,” Steve continues. Just a minute ago he’d privately thought the opposite; but he was wrong. “And it’s okay. If you’re too sick to eat, the doctors can work around that. But you’re not dead, man. I wish you’d listen to me.”

Jerry drops his head into his hands.

“I wish you’d listen to _me_,” he counters, miserably. “I wish you’d all just _let me go_.”

*

They put the feeding tube in early the next morning; Jerry is calm, just letting it happen. Steve, for his part, has a much harder time. He schools his face, well-trained at doing so; but he can practically feel the scrape of the tube moving up his nostril and down his esophagus. Not _unbearable_, but definitely uncomfortable. It’s nothing short of eerie that Jerry takes it without flinching, let alone any— emotional reaction. He just sits still, stays silent as the nurse begins his feeding. And even after she leaves.

“What are you thinking?” Steve prompts, eventually.

“That I should be grateful.” Jerry’s eyes drift shut. “That we go on. That we’re— souls, you know. Not just bodies.”

“That’s not how you feel?”

“I don’t feel—”

“I know,” Steve interrupts, holding his hands up in apology (though Jerry’s eyes are still closed). “I know you don’t feel anything. Got it. I just meant, like, it wouldn’t be your choice? To still be around?”

“Around, but like this? I mean— not really.” Jerry’s eyes open. “If it’s oblivion versus this forever, I’ll take oblivion, thanks.”

“Say this is the afterlife,” Steve relents. “What makes you think this is all there is to it?”

It’s a question he actually ponders, before answering a low, solemn tone. “I thought this was purgatory. But I think— it might be hell? Like, maybe there’s nothing after this. Maybe I’m stuck here for good. In this bed. With— with tubes in me, and no— hope for anything better.”

“If this is hell, then who am I? You don’t think I’m really here, anymore?”

Steve gives it a full minute, but Jerry doesn’t answer.

“You say this is hell,” Steve continues, giving up for now, “but you’re not in pain. Are you?”

Jerry sighs. “Humans can tolerate so much pain. Unexpectedly massive amounts.”

“Yes.”

“Psychologically, you know what’s worse? What humans have a much lower tolerance for?”

“What?”

“Being uncomfortable. They’ve done studies. Captured soldiers, who can stand physical torture, _break_ under being chronically uncomfortable.”

“Yeah. That’s real, man.”

Jerry was maybe expecting an argument, because he freezes in place like he’s surprised. Steve stands again, and settles on the edge of his mattress.

“In the SEALs, part of training was called surf torture. We’d lie down at the edge of the ocean. Waves crashin’ all over our faces. We’d stay there ‘til hypothermia set in. Then we’d get out and rub sand all over ourselves, and we couldn’t wash it off. Joe would say, _get comfortable being uncomfortable_. So there we’d be, like, itchy as fuck, cold enough to cry. And we’d just have to keep going. And you’re right. It’s not really rational but I think maybe I’d rather get shot than go through that again.”

“That’s,” Jerry says, thickly, “how this feels.”

“Okay.” Steve sighs; he finds Jerry’s hand and squeezes it in both of his. “I hear you. I do. Can you keep goin’ for me?”

Jerry’s eyes drift shut.

“I don’t know,” he replies.

*

The nightmares begin, that night. Frankly he’s surprised it’s taken so long, for an actual zombie Jerry to show up in his dreams. To rage at Steve, for letting him die. To rot, to turn to meat and then to foul, greasy sludge.

He’s surprised it’s taken so long for him to wake up, sick and shaking and sticky with sweat.

Steve eases his hand from Jerry’s. As quietly as he can he goes into the bathroom; leaves the light off but turns on the water.

And stands there, for solid minutes. It’s been ages since a bad dream actually caused him to vomit, but it’s happened. And it honestly feels like it could happen again now.

It doesn’t.

The tangle in his guts loosens eventually, at least enough for him to wash his face then shuffle back out to Jerry’s bedside.

The lights are off here too, but the hallway’s light is plenty to see by. It’s more than enough to see that Jerry’s awake, head upright; it’s not quite enough to read the expression on his face as he watches Steve return.

Not that Jerry’s had much in the way of expressions, lately.

“Are you all right?”

“Yeah,” Steve replies, instinctively; but it occurs to him that under normal circumstances, Jerry would be somebody that he’d tell, about the nightmare. “I had a bad dream.”

“About what?”

Steve sighs, settling back in his chair. “Um. About you dying. Trying to save you, but I couldn’t.”

“It’s hurting you,” Jerry murmurs. “To stay with me.”

“You’ll feel better soon, man. I’m just staying ‘til then.”

“I guess I haven’t said thank you. For staying.”

“You don’t have to thank me.”

“No, I do. And I do thank you. It helps. Having someone here. Knowing someone will miss me, once I’m— you know. Gone for good.”

Steve sinks lower, running one trembling hand down his face. “To tell you the truth, buddy, I miss you already.”

*

It’s Friday afternoon; which means it’s only been a little over four days since Steve found Jerry, wrist slashed, bleeding out on his living room floor. Only three nights, that he’s actually slept at Jerry’s side.

It feels ten times this much.

Physically Jerry’s stabilized; he’s recovering well from the surgery on his arm, and the fluids and feeding tube have his stats right where they should be. The olanzapine hasn’t helped yet, but Kealoha says that’s normal.

The discussion has started, about getting Jerry out the hospital bed. Into some form of longer-term care, until he can look after his own physical needs again.

Steve’s hunched up in his armchair, brooding about this. Brooding also about the fact that it’s way past time he call Jerry’s mother, tell her that her son likely has the same condition that she resented in her father—

When there’s a knock at the door.

Lou peeks in, gestures Steve into the hallway.

He’s smiling.

Steve gets up stiffly, joins Lou outside; he’s a welcome sight, but Steve can’t bring himself to smile back.

At least not at first.

“Boy,” Lou opens, “I never thought I’d be so happy ‘bout something like this.”

“Something like what?”

“Something like confirmation of a new designer drug on the streets.”

Lou’s eyes are sparkling. Steve uncrosses his arms.

“What?”

“Some of the uniforms are calling it _zombie lite_. ‘cause it doesn’t make you chew anyone’s face off, like that other stuff— just makes you mope around, sulkin’ about how dead you are.”

“There’s other cases?”

“Two, in a hospital on the north shore.”

“And they have the same symptoms?”

“Flat voice; won’t eat; honestly, truly believe they’re dead.”

The headrush that comes then is enough that Steve has to lean back against the wall. Lou steps closer, squeezes his elbow.

“I thought he was,” Steve grunts, “you know. Sick.”

“Yeah. I know. We’ve all been worried ‘bout him and, honestly, I don’t think we can stop just yet. But I think our odds are better now. We keep lookin’ after him, pray he comes down. There’s every chance he will.”

There’s also a chance he won’t, but Steve tries his best to push that aside.

“Good work, Lou,” Steve rasps, shaking himself back to the present. “Start working on—”

“We got Danny and Junior talking to the families, and Tani poking around, seein’ if anybody’s making noise about where this might be comin’ from. At first pass it doesn’t look like either of the other vics are users, either.”

“Could be someone dosing vics as a weapon.”

“Believe me, that’s on the table. But the good news is—”

“It doesn’t look like Jerry took anything on purpose.”

“Right. So, crime or accident, that’s the question. But you leave that to us. You just stay with our boy in there; try to guide him back.”

“Will do,” Steve mutters. And accepts a quick hug, before Lou takes his leave.

He asks a nurse to find him Jerry’s psychiatrist, then heads back inside, to find that Jerry’s fallen asleep. The solitude nearly sets him brooding once again. Luckily before he can sink too deep, there’s a knock at the door, and Kealoha enters.

“You asked to see me?” she prompts, smiling mildly.

“Yeah. Thanks. So— our team have been keepin’ an eye on the scanners. Tryin’ to see if there’s any reason at all to believe this might be a drug.”

“And you’ve found something?”

“Two other patients. Exact same symptoms.”

“Do you know what hospitals they’re in? I’d like to speak with their doctors.”

“I’ll find out for you ASAP,” Steve promises. “But—I mean—that’s good news, right? Is there something different we can do now?”

“Unless one of the other doctors has more information on the cause?” She shakes her head. “Not really. Olanzapine would have been my choice for substance-related psychosis, anyway. It’s a powerful trip killer.”

“Then why hasn’t it worked yet?”

Steve realizes, an instant too late, that he’s come awfully close to shouting. “Sorry,” he mutters. He glances at Jerry, surprised to see he hasn’t woken.

“Let’s go ahead and say that this definitely isn’t bad news,” Kealoha replies, thoughtfully. “And, knowing more is always better. I’ll reach out to some colleagues, see if there’s any other therapies they’d suggest we try. And once you get me the other hospitals and we’ll combine forces there, too.”

“I, uh.” The anger’s gone, and Steve can’t stop himself from slumping forward, kneading his eyes. “I don’t know much about this, doc. Is this still potentially a—long-term situation?”

“Mr. McGarrett.” The doctor smiles. “You updated me five minutes ago. Let me do some research. You just be here for your friend.”

She leaves. And Steve settles at Jerry’s side again— and, okay, definitely broods a little more.

Jerry’s not sick. At least, not from any internal causes. But drugs can have permanent effects; he’s seen it before.

So, the cause of Jerry’s condition is different than they’d thought.

But what does it matter, if the outcomes are the same?

*

On Saturday they change Jerry’s medication. Increase the dosage; add an antidepressant.

Nothing happens.

On Sunday Steve has the nightmare again, worse than before. He sits in the dark, on the cold tile of Jerry’s bathroom, and walks himself through breathing exercises until the urge to retch finally fades from the back of his throat.

*

Monday morning, Jerry’s still asleep when Steve drags himself downstairs for breakfast. It’s his sixth day in a row without a morning swim. Sixth day in a row of starting his day with gelatinous oatmeal and a from-frozen breakfast sandwich, eaten alone in the hospital cafeteria.

Danny’s worried. He’s probably not the only one, but of course he’s the most vocal; he hates that Steve is all but living in the hospital, and _I’m not saying we leave him alone, but god, let somebody else take a freaking turn_—

Won’t happen. It can’t. In the past week Jerry’s delusions have become painfully familiar to Steve as well. They shift, with time. But there’s constants in them, and among these constants is the belief that Steven McGarrett is actually there.

Anyone else in the room, not so much.

How could he leave?

It kills him to think that any day now Jerry will be transferred to another facility, likely one that won’t accommodate overnight guests. But until that forces his hand, he’ll stay.

After breakfast he drags himself back, having to actively talk himself into taking the stairs. Lack of sleep and exercise have him feeling truly lethargic. Combine that with this strange breed of anxiety—born of a situation he genuinely can’t rectify—and he just feels _off_. Sluggish. Upset.

Oh well. This isn’t about him.

Jerry’s awake, when he returns. He’s just as Steve left him, reclined against some pillows, blankets pulled to his waist—

And yet.

There’s something different about him.

He’s _alert_.

He startles, when Steve approaches. Hugs himself a little; but then, when Steve settles on the edge of the bed, unfolds so Steve can take both of his hands.

And Steve asks the only question he can think to. “Are you comin’ back to us, Jer?”

Lips tremble, give soundless movements. “Was,” Jerry gets out, eventually, squeezing hard at Steve’s hands. “Was I gone?”

“Oh, man. Oh, shit, brother,” Steve laughs, leaning forward and hugging Jerry tightly. “You’ve been right here. You’ve been sick. But you’ve been right here.”

“On Earth.”

“On Earth.”

“Not— dead?”

“No! No. You’re alive, you’re fine, you’re safe. Oh, God.” Still laughing, maybe choking up a little, Steve leans back and takes Jerry’s hands again.

“What happened?”

“It’s a long story.” And okay, Steve’s full-on verklempt now, so he rubs his thumbs over Jerry’s knuckles and buys himself time for a slow, steadying breath. “You were drugged, is what it comes down to. You’ve been on a long, nasty trip, buddy. But you’re coming down now, yeah?”

“I think so.”

“It’s okay. You’ll be okay, even if it’s still a little foggy now.”

“Okay. Um.” Jerry swallows, hard. “I don’t feel well.”

“Yeah. You’re in for one helluva hangover. You gonna be sick, or anything?”

“Just— weak. Cold.”

“Okay. Okay, I gotta tell ‘em you’re back with us, anyway. I’ll ask for another blanket while I’m at it, okay?”

Jerry gives a tight little nod, and Steve eases himself off the bed. In the hallway he finds a nurse that he recognizes; passes along both requests, though he can tell that she, understandably, marks him as low priority. It doesn’t really matter. Yes, Jerry really should be checked out, but for now Steve’s happy to bask in the undeniable victory of the moment. Jerry’s alive. Jerry _knows_ that he’s alive.

Steve hurries back.

In the end it’s not that long before Jerry’s attending comes by, looks over his vitals, asks some general questions. Says he’ll let Kealoha make the call on the antipsychotics. But he does increase the morphine drip because, for the first time since surgery, Jerry’s in pain from his wounded arm.

The morphine makes him slightly dopey. He lolls against his upraised bed, eyes roaming blearily; still it’s such a contrast to his former lethargy that it doesn’t bother Steve one bit. He keeps up his end of the conversation. Relays encouraging texts from the rest of the team, giddy with joy every time a message makes Jerry smile. He sits faithfully by as Jerry dozes. And when he wakes again, Steve flips through the TV channels just to watch Jerry react to the offerings.

Football gets him a displeased grunt. So does some daytime soap opera.

Who’d’ve thought it would be such a relief for Jerry to have _feelings_ again?

Steve should have realized that they wouldn’t all be pleasant.

*

They’d settled on some home reno show. Exhausted by sheer relief, Steve slouches deep into his chair and zones out a little, knowing Jerry’s doing the same. Or maybe, hopefully, sleeping. He’s been brought that extra blanket and, the last time Steve looked, had pulled it up to his chin and made himself comfortable.

And for a while, they both do rest.

Steve doesn’t quite know how long it’s been, when he’s roused by the sound of quiet crying.

He straightens slowly, so as not to cause alarm. Jerry’s still clutching the blanket to his chest; tears stream thickly down his cheeks and leave darker spots as they drip onto its powder blue fabric.

“Hey, hey,” Steve murmurs, shifting closer. “What’s up, buddy?”

“Sorry,” Jerry whispers.

“Don’t be sorry. Don’t say sorry, hey.” Steve stands, sits back to the edge of the bed. “You’re feelin’ really crappy, huh.” Relief mixes with real concern, as he takes in just how miserable Jerry’s looking.

“Yeah,” Jerry bleats. “But it’s not—that’s not why—”

“Okay. It’s okay, scoot over, huh?” Steve murmurs, and Jerry does, until they’re fit side-by-side in the bed. Steve tucks an arm around Jerry’s back, half for lack of space, half for comfort. “You wanna talk, we could talk. If not, we could just rest a while. I’m not goin’ anywhere.”

Jerry nods, and sniffles a little. His mouth moves silently, like he wants to talk, but can’t quite decide how to begin.

Steve squeezes his shoulder. “It’s been a scary couple of days, huh?” Jerry nods. “That what’s on your mind?”

“No. I.” Jerry clears his throat, the lump in it audible. “It’s not— it’s just.”

“Just what?”

“I thought I was gonna—”

“Gonna what?”

“I thought I was gonna see my dad?” Jerry flashes a miserable smile. “And see my grandma. And my old dog. And Mika, and Suzie. Sometimes it really felt like I was stuck but sometimes it just felt like— a stop on the way, y’know? And sooner or later I’d end up somewhere else, and— they’d be there. And I’d see ‘em.”

There’s nothing to say to that. Steve just squeezes his shoulder again, while Jerry wipes tears from his cheeks.

“And,” Jerry whispers, after a moment.

“And what? Hey, it’s okay,” Steve soothes, because Jerry’s sobbing now; shifting onto his side until he can tuck against Steve’s chest. “It’s okay. It’s okay, Jerry. What else? Come on, it’s okay.”

“I thought I might meet Susanna,” Jerry weeps, already beginning to soak Steve’s t-shirt. “I wanted to tell her—I wanted to tell her I’m sorry it took so long—I wanted to tell her—I’m sorry nobody missed her. I just wanted—I just—I just wanted to tell her—somebody cared. I just wanted her to know that somebody cared that she died. ‘cause—‘cause holy crap, there’s nothing lonelier—”

“I’m here,” Steve murmurs, hugging Jerry tighter. He can’t help but assume Jerry’s drawing some sort of parallel. “I’m with you, man, you’re not alone. You’re not alone.”

“I know.” Jerry sniffles. “I know. ‘s stupid that I’m—all upset—”

“Hey, hey. It’s not. It’s not. You’ve been through a lot, okay?”

“It’s ungrateful. I don’t mean to be ungrateful. I don’t mean to—I don’t mean— I’m glad I’m here, I promise! I just—I just—”

“I know.” Steve sighs. “Do me a favor, huh, just rest a little. We can talk more if you want, but for now, you need rest.”

“Okay,” Jerry mumbles.

“I’ll wake you up when the doctor gets here.”

“You’ll stay?”

“Does it look like I’m goin’ anywhere? _Hey_.”

When Jerry lifts his face, Steve wipes the tears from his cheeks.

“I want you to hold onto me, close your eyes, and rest, Jerry. Everything’s gonna be okay. I promise.”

And the look in Jerry’s eyes says that he finally believes him.

*

True to his word, Steve stays; he fails, though, to stay awake. It doesn’t matter. Jerry’s psychiatrist wakes him first, with a patient smile; then Steve wakes Jerry himself, so his friend never realizes that they’d both been napping.

The plans they make in this visit are radically different from the last. No, Jerry won’t be going home today—which disappoints Steve, of course, but he sees the logic. Jerry’s condition had been unprecedented. With still no answers about what drug had caused it, Kealoha wants to keep him under observation for at least another day, while they wean him off the antipsychotics. Still he’ll be discharged soon. And not sent to another facility, but genuinely released—free to start putting this all behind him.

By the time the consult is over, Jerry is spectacularly cranky. He wants to go home; he wants more morphine; he wants less morphine; he wants to eat an actual lunch. One of those, at least, can be accommodated. There’s discussion of leaving the NG tube in, in case Jerry can’t get food down after all, but this leads to more crankiness. The tube is making his throat hurt. The nurse agrees to take it out.

Jerry coughs and grimaces as they remove it, until Steve just goes ahead and holds his hand. Doesn’t let go when they’re done. Doesn’t let go until Jerry’s soup and Jell-O arrive and, even then, not until it’s clear he can’t eat Jell-O one-handed.

Lunch completed, Steve waits uneasily. All else aside it’s been a week since Jerry’s insides have had to handle anything but nutrient formula, and the first meal— well. It doesn’t always go well.

But this time, it goes fine. In fact Jerry seems in his best spirits yet, especially when plans are made for him to get out of bed later for a shower and maybe a short walk.

He’s all right.

He’s really going to be okay.

Still looking a bit shaken, though, so when all is quiet again Steve goes back to holding his hand. Jerry chuckles, and runs a thumb across Steve’s wrist.

“How you doin’?” Steve prompts, squeezing lightly.

“Okay. I feel myself leveling out.”

“Good.”

“Even this morning it was kind of foggy, but I actually feel almost normal, right now.” Jerry takes a deep breath, and lets it out slowly. “I think— it’s something I’ll definitely need to process. But, maybe not tonight?”

Which answers Steve’s unspoken question, of whether Jerry wanted to continue their earlier conversation. But there’s no rush. There’s plenty of time.

“Um,” Jerry continues. “But there is one thing I wanted to say, before anything else.”

“Okay?”

“Not to sound all sappy, commander,” Jerry smiles, not meeting Steve’s eyes, “but I will _literally_ never forget the fact the you stayed with me. I— can’t tell you what it means. I actually can’t put it into words. I was—” his voice cracks, tears welling. “For all intents and purposes, I was in hell. Literally at the lowest I could go. And even out here in the real world, I couldn’t have been good company. And you _stayed_ with me.” He looks over, finally. “So. Thank you.”

Sensing both opportunity and need, Steve lets go of Jerry’s hand and instead pulls him into a massive hug. He returns it with gusto. “You’re welcome for staying,” Steve whispers. “Thank _you_ for coming back.”

Jerry laughs, wetly. Then they pull apart, and Steve fetches Jerry the box of tissues from his bedside table (almost swiping one for himself but ultimately making do with the collar of his t-shirt).

“Oh, man,” Jerry sighs, after he’s cleaned himself up. “Feels stupid to say considering I haven’t gotten out of bed today, but— it’s been a long day.”

“That’s not stupid, man. You’ve had a long _couple_ of days.”

“So’ve you,” Jerry replies. “So, like— glad as I’ve been to have you here, you should really go home. I’m serious,” he adds, over Steve’s attempted interruption. “I’m so serious, dude. It’s, what, like four PM? They’re gonna let me shower. Then I have a feeling I’m gonna sleep straight ‘til morning.”

“I mean.” Steve flashes an awkward-on-purpose smile. “Can’t say I wouldn’t love a shower, too.”

“You haven’t _showered_?”

“Did you want the honest answer?”

“Go home, please. Like, right now.” Jerry shakes his head. “You wanna come say hi tomorrow, you’re very welcome.”

“Obviously, man. But— are you sure? Still kind of a lonely place.”

“Still less lonely than being dead,” Jerry replies, with a shrug; and Steve can’t argue with that.

“All right. I think I might take you up on that.” Steve stretches; retrieves his go-bag from the corner, then returns for another hug. “I’ll see you soon, okay?”

“I know.”

“And you let me know if you need me back here tonight. I mean it.”

“I know.” This time, as they pull apart, there’s only smiles. “Go home, okay?”

“I’m going.”

“Pet Eddie for me. I’ll visit soon.”

And he will leave. He will. But for just a moment, Steve pauses.

And relishes the sound of Jerry, talking about the future.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Not going to lie. I did not do a final proof of this. So please do let me know if anything unforgivable slipped through ;)
> 
> Hope you're all doing well! Only six more prompts to fill, and I'm hoping they'll all behave themselves and keep to a reasonable length. I'd like to finish Whumptober 2019 before October 2020. Bad enough this undertaking _literally outlived the fucking series_.


	26. Abandoned (Junior)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Junior breaks some glasses, then just sort of breaks. Coda to 9x25.

Junior gives up on sleep a bit after 0430; it’s longer than he has been lasting. This, at least, is close enough to Steve’s alarm that he can start in on chores, risk making (a little bit of) noise.

He’s grateful. Chores are stupidly welcome—not only because they’re something to do, but because it’s clearer now than ever that he doesn’t have anywhere else to go. If Steve kicks him out, he’ll be back in the shelter.

(Although, no. He has a job now; he could get an apartment. Or crash with Tani, or Adam, or even Captain Grover—he’s got options.

So why doesn’t it _feel_ that way?)

Regardless, he’s content to haul out of bed and downstairs now, start in on cleaning, tidying, generally earning his keep. Jokes aside, they haven’t exactly made a chore chart. But Junior knows Steve’s least favorites: he doesn’t like dusting, or doing the floors, or unloading the dishwasher. And Junior’s more than happy to step in.

In the kitchen, he makes some coffee and decides to do the floors first; they’re quieter than the dishwasher. He sweeps twice, then spot-cleans with a rag. Sweeps again, then replaces the broom in the closet and gets out the Swiffer and the box of wipes.

It’s familiar. The process, the results, even the light soapy smell of the mopping pads—and he tries to sink into it, let it comfort him.

It doesn’t work.

There’s only so much brightness a guy can muster after his fourth or fifth night sleeping three hours at most, with even these meager hours plagued by awful, endless, wake-up-crying nightmares—

He shakes himself. Not sure how long he’s been stuck inside of his own head but the floor is not only finished but _dry_, so. It’s been a while.

He gets back to it. The box of wipes is empty so he rinses and recycles it, then opens the dishwasher and starts in on that. Plates, then bowls. He knows the place for everything. Silverware. This, he can lose himself in, if he can only try hard enough. Fork tines clink together as his hands tremble, but everything ends up in the right section. His dad used to bitch at him for putting the forks in upside-down. What he wouldn’t give for that to be their argument now—

The dreams keep taking different forms. Sometimes he never finds his father; sometimes he finds him with the gun still in his mouth. Sometimes he watches him shoot Kuewa.

Last night, Junior himself was the one to catch Dad’s bullet.

It’s not something you shake off: the rage in a parent’s eyes as you realize, though it doesn’t seem possible, that they wish you true harm. He could puke, just thinking about it. And the worst part is—

The worst part is that even if he can shake off the dream, reality’s only a little bit better. Less violent, maybe. But the hate on Dad’s face, that hate was real, that’s not a dream, that’s his new goddamn reality—

Junior hears the crash before he feels the glass slipping. Reacting too late, he tries to nudge it forward—and knocks down two more.

They smash. They’re cheap, thin; they don’t break, they _splinter_.

And Junior stands, in the middle of the mine field, fully awake for the first time in days. Body prickling with dread, with nauseous sweat.

Oh fuck.

He fucked up.

The commander’s going to hate him.

Junior tries to walk it back; tries to tell himself that the commander’s not a guy who’d hate someone over broken glassware. Except—

What if he is?

What if he does?

Almost everything in this house used to be his own father’s; who knows what value even these glasses might have held for him— and now Junior’s gone and destroyed them—

“Junior?”

Of course. The commander’s also not a man who sleeps through a loud noise; and he’s definitely not a man who hears a loud noise and then goes back to sleep.

Junior glances up. The commander enters, yawning, scratching at his belly until his shirt rides up. Clearly he knows it’s not an intruder; he’s fully at ease.

Junior’s always liked seeing the commander like this. Sleepy, vaguely out of sorts. It’s nice that a man like him can still be vulnerable— although, to be clear, having crusties in the corners of his eyes wouldn’t stop him from kicking Junior’s ass if he felt like it. Not that he seems to want to.

But maybe he just hasn’t noticed the mess yet—?

And no, he hadn’t. Junior can tell because he sees the moment that the man does notice; his eyebrows flick upwards. “Word to the wise, don’t try to jump over that.”

“I— wasn’t.”

“I’m only sayin’ ‘cause I know I woulda tried to, at your age. Stay put, okay, Imma get you shoes—”

The commander disappears briefly. When he returns a moment later he’s wearing sneakers, carrying a pair of his own slippers that he lays at Junior’s feet with a yawn.

“My friend Chin— you haven’t met him— used to tell me it was uncivilized to wear shoes in the house. I say it’s intelligent. Your feet don’t stop needing protection just because you’re home—”

Is he— actually— not mad?

He straightens. “You hurt yourself?”

“Nosir,” Junior replies, automatically.

“That didn’t get you, then?”

Startled, Junior looks where the commander gestures: at the countertop, where one of the glasses must have landed, then at his own hand, which he’s put down for balance. Put down, directly in the glass.

The commander stiffens, then, though he still doesn’t seem angry; more like he’s catching on at last to the fact that Junior’s not really okay right now.

So he takes over. Gets a hand on Junior’s elbow and tugs, leading him out of the danger zone, and over to the table, where he guides him into a chair. Gets the kitchen first aid kit (there’s three in the house, that Junior knows of). Turns on all the lights, then pulls another chair over and takes a seat, facing Junior.

“I—” Junior clears his throat. “I can do it, sir.”

“That’s your right hand,” the commander notes. “You gonna take the glass out with your left? No offense, but you’re the least ambidextrous SEAL I’ve ever met. Hey. _Junior_.”

Junior looks up, knowing he’s supposed to.

“You somewhere else right now, bro?”

The meaning behind his words is clear: he thinks Junior’s fighting off a flashback of some kind. Honestly that might be less embarrassing. How is he supposed to explain that this is actually just about breaking the glasses—?

“I’m here,” Junior murmurs. “I’m sorry, sir, I just didn’t sleep well. I’ll get you new glasses—”

“Hey.” His voice isn’t soft, but it’s patient. Mild. “Not what I asked. Lemme see your hand, please.”

Junior reaches out obediently, letting the commander place Junior’s hand in his own lap and examine it briefly. Nothing’s in too deep. After only a minute with the tweezers, the commander wipes an alcohol pad over his palm and puts band-aids over the two worst cuts. Then it’s over.

Junior gets to his feet so quickly that he sees stars.

The commander follows him to the closet, blocks him as he tries to take the broom. Puts both hands on Junior’s elbows, now.

“Do me a favor?” Despite the words, there’s no demand there. “Go stand in the water out back. Go put your feet in the water. It helps. I’ll join you in a minute.”

“Needa clean,” Junior protests; but he’s stopped again.

“I’m gonna clean it. It’s no big deal. Go out back, please.”

So Junior goes. Kicks off the borrowed slippers as soon as he hits sand and keeps going, up to his ankles, then his knees.

Hugs both arms around his chest. And closes his eyes.

By the time the commander gets to him, he’s gotten all of the ugly, noisy weeping out of the way; now there’s just tears, stinging but silent, working their way down his cheeks.

“It’s me,” the familiar voice announces. Not bad protocol, really, when approaching a spooked sailor.

The splashing stops, as the commander comes to stand beside him.

“What’s that thing, where, if you get upset over something stupid, it’s because you’ve been holding all your real shit back for so long?” With his presence fully established, Steve lays a hand on Junior’s back. “I assume it’s something like that, and not just because you’re a big fan of Walmart bargain glassware?”

His voice would come out horribly right now. So Junior just nods.

“Okay. It’s been a rough couple of days, huh?”

More nodding. Steve comes closer, gets his arm fully around Junior’s back.

“I didn’t actually think you’d kick me out for breaking them.” He manages not to sob aloud, though a few words come out more as hiccups than normal speech. “I just—”

“Yeah, I got it.” Steve squeezes warmly. “One person abandons you, you get it in your head that everybody’s gonna.”

Junior sniffles. Paws at some tears, because apparently crying in front of Steve McGarrett is a thing that’s happening today. What’s the use in denying it?

“I’m not offended,” Steve notes, “but I need you to understand that I wouldn’t do that.”

“I know. I know that.”

They both fall silent, then.

The sun’s almost up; the sky is brightening, and the water along with it. They watch it, for a while.

At last Steve clears his throat, and jostles Junior lightly. “Got my fill of the water. Different way than usual, but I did. Let’s say we go for a run, then you let me take you out for breakfast?”

“You don’t have to—”

“I look like I’m at gunpoint?” Steve flashes a smile. “I’m only asking because I’d like to. Okay?”

“Okay.”

“Up for the run first?”

“Yeah.” Juniors scrubs his eyes, ducking out of Steve’s arm as he does so. “Just let me get changed.”

“I need to, too,” Steve replies. “C’mon.”

The arm’s not around his shoulders anymore. But Steve’s hand finds its way to his back again, and guides him towards the shore.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ugh. I only realized after finishing this that the whole thing with Junior's dad actually happened in the same episode that Jerry got shot. Idk why but they seem like totally separate timelines to me. So I guess... Steve is just putting his concern for Jerry aside, to help Junior through this moment? Not gonna lie, I like to think that Steve didn't leave Jerry's side for his first days in the hospital. But I guess we'll ignore that, for the sake of this chapter.


	27. Numb (Steve)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Danny offers to drive Steve home from Freddie's funeral; then he offers to let Steve drive. Steve wants to walk home instead. Coda to 3x20.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Out of order again. Who cares? I'm doing a challenge that started in September, _in May_. Order is an illusion. Time is an illusion. Quarantine time is even more of an illusion. In any case, here's chapter 27/prompt 29.

The sheer relief on Steve’s face, as he catches sight of them, makes Danny’s chest ache. He had to have known they’d come, right? He had to have known they wouldn’t just go about their lives while their commander— while their _brother_— laid to rest one of his oldest friends?

He had to have known, Danny decides.

It’s not a surprised breed of relief; it’s just pure, fucking _thank god you’re here_.

_I’ve never needed a friendly face this badly_.

Steve doesn’t even try to smile. Doesn’t even try to greet them. Just stops before them and lets his chin drop to his chest; lets his shoulders droop ever-so-slightly. His eyes hurt just to look at. They bear the red rawness of eyes that won’t let the tears escape; that have instead been brining in them, without respite, for hours.

Chin gets there first. Wraps his arms around Steve and pulls him in for a hug that isn’t quite returned.

Kono’s next. With her, Steve moves a little more, bringing one white-gloved hand up to touch the back of her hair.

But when Danny takes his turn Steve doesn’t move an inch. He just stands, still and weighty as a marble statue, breathing against Danny’s shoulder in sharp, shallow bursts.

This, Danny thinks absently— this is what it looks like to actually stand at the very edge.

The edge of what, he can’t quite name.

Even without physical feedback, Danny can tell that he isn’t allowed to let go yet, not after ten seconds, not after a full minute. The energy transfer is almost palpable. Steve’s— charging. Taking from Danny the strength he needs to get through the rest of the day.

Danny’s more than willing to give it.

And when Steve finally pulls away, that little jumpstart is literally visible on his face. He musters a smile, as Chin pats him on the arm. Takes a couple of slow, healthy breaths; and calmly announces that he’s ready to go home. Danny takes his cue. He’s not quite sure how Steve got to the cemetery, but he does know this: they’re leaving together.

He takes his keys out, waves them lazily. “Want me to drive?”

Steve shakes his head. Danny snorts and tries to hand over the keys, but again comes the tight little motion.

“I’m gonna walk,” he says, voice steady but quiet.

“Babe. Steve, that’s gotta be— ten miles.”

“So don’t come,” Steve replies, with a face that says he knows Danny will. Danny sighs. He slides the Camaro key from his key ring and passes it to Chin; he’ll be at Steve’s without a car but it doesn’t really matter. He’ll probably end up staying the night anyway.

So that’s it; they set off. Much as he wants to help Steve carry his various burdens, Danny lets his friend lead. He has no idea how to get home from here. And Steve, though he doesn’t so much as consult his phone’s map, seems perfectly confident as he picks their direction.

And for a while they just walk. It’s hot— maybe even hotter than usual— and Danny’s drenched in sweat ten minutes in. He takes off his jacket, carries it on his arm. It cools off his back, but sweat pools in his elbow, beneath the extra fabric, so badly that it starts to drive him kind of nuts. He switches the jacket from arm to arm.

Steve’s better off, but he’s not immune. The thick, dark fabric of his uniform shows no sweat marks, but beads are forming on his upper lip. The fringe of hair that shows below his cap clings damply to his neck.

In any other instance, Danny would ask how much longer they’d be walking.

As it is, he keeps quiet; keeps going.

He doesn’t break the silence, in fact, until they’re more than halfway. (They’ve _got_ to be more than halfway— Jesus, he’ll scream if they’re not _well over_ halfway—)

They’re waiting at a crosswalk. There’s enough traffic that even Steve won’t jaywalk, and Danny takes a deep breath and finally blurts what he’s been thinking since the moment he saw Freddie’s headstone.

“The, uh. The date he died. Steve—”

“Yeah.” Steve’s voice is pure gravel.

“Babe,” Danny huffs. “Jesus Christ.” Because Steve’s been through a lot— Steve can take a lot— but nobody should have to lose their best friend and their father _on the same day_. Jesus.

The reaction isn’t quite what he expects: Steve laughs, and not sadly either. He just sort of chuckles like he’s been told an okay joke.

But when Danny looks over there are, in fact, tears in his eyes.

“Hey,” Danny says, shifting his jacket (again) and tucking an arm through Steve’s elbow. “You’re allowed to, you know. Cry. Nobody here but us—”

_Nobody here but us chickens_, he meant to say. But Steve isn’t always the best with colloquialisms, so Danny changes tack. “Nobody here but us,” he repeats, making it a full sentence this time.

“I—” Steve starts, but loses breath halfway through the sound. “I’m in my dress blues.”

“You’re in your dress blues.”

“I’m not— I’m not crying in my dress blues, Danny.”

“Oh. You’re gonna go home and cry in your boxers instead, and that’s totally different.”

“That’s the plan,” Steve replies. And the light turns, and they cross the street.

Only it’s not the plan, apparently. They get home maybe thirty minutes later, and Steve takes off his blues— then puts on swim trunks and leaves Danny on the couch to go for a run, then a swim, then a shower.

And when he comes back, yeah, his face is swollen and splotchy. But Danny never sees a tear fall, never hears a sob; guesses that the ocean claimed all the saltwater back for itself, and the wind all the noises of grief.

But Steve’s walls aren’t back up, precisely. He flops onto the couch next to Danny and leans into him, sighing when Danny puts his head on Steve’s shoulder.

“How’re you doing?”

Steve shrugs, bumping Danny’s cheek.

“Yeah. ‘s okay.” Danny thinks about bopping Steve on the knee, but ends up grabbing his hand instead. Steve squeezes back. “So. Walked for two hours, then ran, then swam— tired yet?”

“Yeah,” Steve murmurs.

“Good. Here’s the plan: pizza, beer, sleep. Tomorrow we’re calling out and no, I know you don’t just want to sit around, so we’ll go on a hike or something. Agreed?”

“Mm. Mm-hm.” Suddenly he’s too tired even for words, it would seem. Danny squeezes his hand again, then sits back and lets go. Steve flops against Danny instead.

It feels nearly the same as back in the cemetery: Danny can tell the guy is drawing strength from him, in the very realest of senses. Only this time it isn’t the strength to merely survive. This time it’s a little more thoughtful, a little less desperate— the strength to begin down the long, winding road of putting himself back together.

Danny slings an arm around his shoulders, squeezing lightly.

They’re quiet for another moment. Then Steve shifts, and sighs. “Have you ever gotten shot and—legitimately not felt it?”

“No?” Danny replies, not quite sure where Steve’s going with this. It wouldn’t be like him, seeking reassurances that Freddie died easily. “Hurts like a bitch, every time.”

Steve stays quiet.

“But I can think of at least one of my buddies back in Jersey,” Danny continues, because apparently he got it wrong. “Got shot in the hip and swore it didn’t hurt. Legitimately did not realize until he saw the blood.”

“Yeah,” Steve murmurs. He shakes himself a little. “It’s weird. It’s happened to me before.”

“No shit.”

“I mean, it’s an exaggeration to say I didn’t feel it at all. But it sorta felt like a bee sting, maybe. And I had too much on my mind to care about something like that.”

Danny tries not to smile at the thought of a bee flying up and stinging Steve in the middle of a shoot-out. Then he changes his mind. Steve could probably use a smile, to be honest.

It works better than expected. Steve actually smiles back a little; it’s exhausted, and impossibly sad, but it’s the most emotion he’s shown since returning from his workout.

“That’s—what this feels like,” Steve whispers. “This, right now.”

“What d’you mean?”

“I mean. I know I'm supposed to talk about how I feel. But Danny, I don’t feel anything. Nothing. I’m—I’m shaking, I’m crying, it’s like my body’s reacting, but me? I’m—it’s—it’s _numb_.”

“Well,” Danny hedges, then stops. What is there to say? “Don’t force it, babe.”

Steve snorts. “Yeah. I’m not, believe me.”

“Brains protect us sometimes. Even big, reckless caveman brains like yours.”

“Why do I need protecting from something that happened almost three years ago?”

Danny starts to sigh; blows the air out through pursed lips instead. “That’s rhetorical, right?”

“I guess.”

Steve’s eyes have closed, as though in concession. Danny hugs him tighter, pleased when Steve goes heavier against him. He won’t allow himself to be seen crying. But he’ll allow himself to be held close, and spoken to gently— that’s got to count for something.

They rest a moment, then Danny jostles him lightly. “Let me up for beer, huh? I’ll be back in thirty seconds. Scratch that, gotta pee; I’ll be back in two minutes.”

“I’m fine, Danno.”

“You’re fine. I know you’re fine. I’m just letting you know how long I’ll be gone.”

“Order the pizza while you’re up, too.”

“Then I’ll be gone four minutes.”

“I can take it. Just don’t make it five.”

Steve’s smiling again. His words were meant as a joke, of course, but behind them Danny hears real fragility. Behind them, he is _allowed_ to hear real fragility.

He smiles back. Takes his arm away from Steve and pushes to his feet; then runs all his tiny errands, including the beer. He’s back, two bottles in hand, in well under his allotted timeframe.

Steve’s moved to the other end of the couch, like maybe he doesn’t want to be touched anymore; but when Danny sits, Steve stretches his legs into the empty space between them. Danny passes him a beer, turns on the TV.

There’s nothing much on, but they’re both satisfied to sink into the meaninglessness of a random sitcom. Danny pops the top on his beer and nurses it slowly. It’s a good forty-five minutes until the pizza will get here, and he wonders if it would help or hurt if he convinced Steve to nap until them. In the end he decides not to push his luck.

Steve’s been through a lot today already. Not only the trauma of the funeral itself, but the emotional exertion of letting himself be, well, traumatized. Letting himself exist, in this broken state. It’s not optional; still, it’s not easy.

But Steve’s done a great job at it, Danny muses, without a hint of sarcasm. He really has. He let himself be hugged; let himself need something as absurd as a two-and-a-half hour walk at midday. He let himself cry, even if he didn’t let anyone see it. And he talked about what he was going through— really, honestly talked about it. Even if they reached no conclusion. He still put his thoughts into words.

And, one more thing, Danny realizes: catches it out of the corner of his eye, feels it at the edge of his hip.

Steve’s stretched so thoroughly that his feet are touching Danny. Seeking a physical anchor even from two couch cushions away.

And, though he doesn’t glance over, when Danny smiles at him— he smiles too, all the same.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Aw. It’s been a while since I’ve written early seasons Steve. Big stoic marshmallow. Out of curiosity, what do you all think was the general timeline of his transformation? I tend to write it as being a post-transplant thing, but I think he was honestly becoming more open/emotional as early as season 5.


	28. Beaten (Eric)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Eric's having a bad day.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> WARNING for discussion of domestic abuse. Please please please be kind to yourself and skip this one if it might upset you <3

So here’s the fucking thing: it’s barely noon and Eric has already almost-cried twice and hugged himself about a dozen times. Because last night sucked. Last night sucked so much that it continued into this morning, which is apparently continuing into this afternoon.

He’s a grown up now. Hypothetically. Which is so fucking weird, seriously, because he’s not even sure when he turned 20, let alone 30.

He doesn’t feel 30. And he does not—does _not_—act 30, whether that’s a good thing or a bad thing, who knows, but most people would put him at 25 at the absolute maximum. Because he’s got a baby face. And because he still goes clubbing more weekends than he doesn’t.

But he is, _apparently_, an adult. And _apparently_ it’s not adulty or even acceptable to respond to _good morning_ with _I had nightmares all night can I have a hug_? Which is honestly kind of bullshit because life would be a lot better if it worked that way.

So he keeps it to himself. And the keeping-it-to-himself thing becomes its own sucky thing; not to mention they’re down three people in the lab from some sort of bug going around, at the exact same time there’s been an apparent crime spree, so he can’t even sneak out of the lab to go find somebody he actually might be able to talk to—

And now. _Now_ the evidence he’s working is coming from a domestic abuse murder, the woman probably about his mom’s age, and you usually hear about younger women in these situations but a lot of them don’t get out— a lot of them end up older women in these situations, and— and then some of them get out a different way—

It’s so close to his nightmares that he has to stop for a second. For the whatevereth time that day, has to hold himself around the waist and let out a sob, just to lessen the pressure.

He should call his mom. He should see how she’s doing.

But the fuck of it is, he doesn’t honestly want to know.

He gets himself back together, fast as he can. Which is good, because Jerry and McGarrett arrive soon thereafter— needing a rush on some lab stuff, because when don’t they?

He comes so close. Eric comes so close to pulling Jerry aside and unloading onto Jerry even just thirty seconds’ worth of how awful his day has been.

He doesn’t.

They’ve both got shit to do.

But passing up that opportunity just makes him feel worse, which shouldn’t even have been possible. He just— _god_. He just needs somebody, okay? He just needs somebody to _care_ about him for _five freaking minutes_.

But nobody’s going to. So he just keeps working. Nobody’s going to. So, when Jerry wanders in again, well past so-called business hours, he doesn’t even let himself consider it this time. Just puts his head down, and grunts. “Didn’t find nothin’ new.”

“No, we— we closed that case,” Jerry replies. “Couple of hours ago.”

“Oh. You pull another?”

“No. I was just catching up on some paperwork.”

Eric snorts. “’d’ve gone home, ‘f I were you.”

“Well.” Jerry smiles. “I was waiting for you.”

Stop. Really?

“You were waiting for me?”

“Kinda got the sense you might need a drink. Or a hug. Maybe both?”

And for a second, Eric honestly thinks he’s daydreaming. Jerry’s here— for him? In what universe has he ever earned a friend good enough to stay late at work just to cheer him up? In what world is somebody actually standing in front of him for no reason other than compassion and concern, offering him _affection_—?

“You okay?”

Eric shakes his head. Knows that he looks, like, completely miserable right now, but he doesn’t care.

Jerry opens his arms. And Eric just crawls into them, which doesn’t make sense because he’s standing, but it feels like he’s crawling anyway, like he’s this tiny little thing moving in tiny little motions, towards safety, towards shelter, and when Jerry wraps thick arms around Eric’s back Eric closes his eyes and decides that he lives here now.

A warm, heavy hand rubs his back.

“Did a case get to you, or something like that?” Jerry asks, after a minute or two.

“Kinda.”

“Definitely happens, man. You see some shit; sometimes it hits harder.”

Eric nods, against Jerry’s shoulder. His eyes are watering a little, but he’s not crying, which is cool. Not that Jerry would make a big deal about it, but it’s still better like this.

“Doesn’t help if there’s anything buggin’ you outside of work, either,” Jerry remarks. And it’s hard to see that as anything other than an invitation.

Eric sniffles, lifts his head a little. “Just slept really bad.”

“That sucks. Just one of those nights?”

“Bad dreams,” Eric mumbles, squashing his face back against Jerry’s shoulder. “Like— like, y’know.”

“Yeah, I know.”

“Like, not for nothing but like— I mean shaking, sweating, screaming kinda nightmares, man.” With a little bit of crying and a couple rounds of the shits too because yeah, as established, he’s not the stoic type. By a long shot.

“Wanna talk about ‘em?”

He does, but the thing is, he’s so tired at the moment he can barely stay standing— even though Jerry’s holding up half his weight already. Not just sleepy-tired. Need a month-long break from the whole fucking world tired.

Jerry pats his back as he pulls away. “Maybe drinks first? Anything here that can’t wait?”

Honestly? There’s always something here that can’t wait— _always_— but Eric shakes his head. Shucks off his lab coat, and lets Jerry lead him away.

They take one car. The implication that Jerry’s willing to drive him home later is almost enough to make Eric emotional again, but he holds it together. For now. Sinks lower in the passenger’s seat and hugs himself around the waist, yet again.

Soon they’re parking. Jerry never asked Eric’s opinion on the restaurant, but he doesn’t mind at all. Really it’s sort of a comfort.

Inside, Jerry follows the server and Eric follows Jerry; they end up at a booth in a corner. Slide into place across from one another.

It takes everything he has left, not to ask Jerry to sit next to him instead.

They get beers and appetizers: wings for Eric, spinach dip for Jerry, and jalapeño poppers to share. Eric’s not really hungry, mentally. But once food’s in front of him it occurs to him that he hasn’t eaten yet today; so he finds the, uh, _strength_ to tank his wings and a few of the poppers.

Jerry’s quiet while he eats. Jerry’s always sort of quiet when he eats, granted, but this time there’s an almost hyperfocus to it. Like he’s waiting. Like he’s getting into position to catch somebody who might just fall.

When the food’s mostly gone, they sit nursing their drinks. And yeah, a tiny part of Eric is annoyed by now, that Jerry hasn’t said some magic words to make him spill his guts and then feel all better. But that’s not how this works. He knows that by now.

So Eric breaks the silence himself. “Have I ever told you about my mom?”

“Not really,” Jerry replies. “I mean, I know she’s Danny’s sister—”

“Half-sister.”

Jerry smiles, not quite happily. “I’m guessin’ it made some sort of difference, in this situation.”

“It shouldn’t have. She’s not that much older. Her biological father was never in the picture, and Pop, he did his best to raise her like his own kid.”

“He did his best—?”

“She wouldn’t have it. This guy, this genuinely good-hearted guy, he marries my Nonna when my mom’s like, four. You figure, only dad you ever know, around since before you’re in kindergarten—you’d probably take to him, right?”

“You’d think.”

“Never did. She never took his name. Kept my Nonna’s family name, made sure I ended up with it, too.” Eric shrugs. “And I mean—my dad wasn’t in the picture, either. At least not much. So imagine me, this little kid, I don’t know about any of it. She used to yell at me for callin’ my Pop, Pop. She’d tell me to call him Eddie. Tell me he wasn’t my real grandpa. I was a kid, I didn’t know. I was so confused, half the time I thought he was my _dad_. ‘specially ‘cause how young he was. They were in their thirties, when I was born.”

“Wow,” Jerry murmurs, looking at his hands.

And Eric didn’t—he _did not_—mean to spill this much backstory. It’s not even relevant to the issue at hand; except, of course, it is. “Sorry. Info dump.”

“Nah, it’s fine, man. I just—I guess it’s just makin’ more sense, how close you are to Danny.”

“He was a kid, too,” Eric laughs, shaking his head a little. “Me, I didn’t realize that at the time. He had his own shit to cope with. We all lived in the same house, and, y’know, couldn’t’a been easy, your sister and your dad gettin’ in screaming matches every freakin’ day. But to me he was—kinda the only role model I was allowed to have, y’know?”

Jerry nods.

“So. I guess that’s all kind of background to say— my mom’s just always been— kind of fucked up? That sounds horrible,” he adds, even though there’s no judgment at all on his friend’s face. “But anyway, my mom, she—never really unfucked herself? Like. She’s not a happy ending. Even now.”

“What’s, um. What’s wrong?”

Eric’s lungs go turbo, of their own accord; he sucks a breath so deep and sudden that he almost chokes on it. This, of course, is why he rambled for an extra five minutes. This is the part he’ll never get used to saying.

“So. She’s been seeing this guy, this total fucking— I mean— this real lowlife. For, god, more than fifteen years now, on and off, and—” Another breath. “He hits her?”

“Shit.”

“Yeah.” Eric’s stomach churns, in a way that has nothing to do with the greasy appetizers. “I guess it started when I was finishing up high school. Sometime around then. And, y’know, for those first few years— I really thought I could fix it. Right? I did everything I could think. I talked to her about it every day. From every angle I could think of. Uncle D did too. He made her get a restraining order, this one time, but, those really only work if, y’know.”

“If the person reports it,” Jerry adds, quietly.

“Yeah. Nonna reported it a few times, but it just made things worse. That was the first time mom moved in with him. And Uncle D, you know, it’s not like he could go all vigilante. I mean, I think he gave him a couple of beatdowns, but he was just a regular cop back home. He couldn’t make nothin’ stick if my mom wouldn’t press charges.”

Eric pauses for air. Glances up at Jerry for the first time in a few minutes, and finds such absolute sadness on the guy’s face that he almost wants to stop just for his sake. But it’s rolling now. He’s only told this story a few other times; most of the people he’s close to witnessed it live. But he’s told it enough to know he can’t stop here.

“That was my life, for years,” Eric murmurs. “That was it. I had to get away. Y’know? It sounds selfish, and horrible, but I was—I was dying, tryin’ to save her. So, so, when Uncle D said I should come stay with him in Hawaii— five thousand miles away— fuckin’ saved my life. I know how bad that sounds,” he adds, and he can’t look Jerry in the eyes any longer.

Jerry ducks down, trying to catch his gaze anyway. “Eric. Hey. I’m gonna need you to go a little easier on yourself, dude.” He waits a while for an answer, before going on. “Is this what you were dreaming about?”

“Happens enough.”

“You wanna—?”

Eric shrugs. “’bout what you’d expect, prob’ly. Sometimes he kills her. Sometimes I kill him. Last night I killed him— and then Mom killed me.”

“Wow.”

“Yeah. It’s, uh— it’s some other kinda something. Actually watchin’ your mother come at you, y’know, all— murderous an’— yeah.”

He tries to laugh it off. Tries; but the air gets stuck somewhere at the back of his throat again.

“An’ I— I actually almost called in sick today. Like. That’s how shaken up I was. But we’ve been short-staffed all week, so, I didn’t. But then this morning there was a— a murder case, and you could just see all the old abuse on her— and it just— I just couldn’t take it.”

And between the kindness on Jerry’s face and how utterly crappy he’s been feeling all day, Eric finally cracks. His eyes sting, tears swelling. He hides his face in one hand and sniffles; his nose starts running anyway.

Then there’s a touch on his free hand. Jerry’s pressing a napkin into his fingers, but instead of accepting it, Eric grabs his friend’s hand and holds on for dear life. Jerry laughs softly, and squeezes back.

“You’re all right, man. It’s all right.”

“I hated today,” Eric bleats; the tears are falling now, and he’s pretty sure he’s shaking a little too. “Sh’nna got outta bed.”

“Hey. You did, though. You got yourself to work and did what you had to do, even though you felt like shit. That’s, like, commendable. That’s some functional human being shit right there.”

He hadn’t thought of it that way. “Guess so,” Eric mutters.

“You’re okay, man.” Suddenly Jerry’s voice sounds really, really gentle. Almost fatherly. Which, despite the fact that Jerry is literally his mom’s age, is not their relationship _at all_, but hey, right now he’ll take what he can get.

“You’re okay,” Jerry continues. “Just take a breath, E.”

He takes a few good ones. Then Jerry squeezes his hand again, which gives Eric the strength he needs to finally sit back and blow his nose on the now-crumpled napkin. “Okay. ’m okay.”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah. ’m better,” Eric mumbles, shoving himself out of the booth. “‘mma wash my face.”

It’s a stumbling journey to the bathroom to do so, but once it’s done, Eric actually feels better than he has all day. Almost human again. He puts some cold water on his wrists, too, and takes a few deep breaths before rejoining Jerry.

“I’m good,” he promises, the moment he sits. He flashes a smile. “Outta my system.”

“Oh. That’s— good?”

Eric laughs. Jerry clearly doesn’t believe him; and he _shouldn’t_ believe that Eric’s actually all right. But he’s okay for now. This is the background radiation of his life; he can’t spend every minute of every day crying about it.

“I’m good for now, Jer. Hey, keep keepin’ me company, okay? But you don’t gotta worry.”

“Okay. Um. D’you wanna get dessert?” Jerry asks, then snorts. “Sorry. If I had better coping mechanisms, I’d share ‘em. Promise.”

And it occurs to Eric, suddenly, that he’s shaking even worse now; and that maybe it’s not from crying, after all, as much as from relief. Sort of a post-workout thing, but with emotions. He feels loose and light and sleepy and soggy and— yeah, actually kind of ravenous. “Oh man. I do. But no splitting.”

“No splitting.”

“No splitting. We die like men,” Eric finishes, not sure if his friend gets the joke but satisfied by his smile nevertheless.

They flag down their server. Eric orders the most expensive dessert—not because it’s fancy, but because (he assumes) it will be the largest. Jerry does the same. And their gamble pays off; a few minutes later they’re both greeted with massive skillets, full of cookie and topped with ice cream and whipped cream and chocolate sauce— and holy shit, the first bite is probably the best thing Eric’s ever tasted. He maybe moans a little. Jerry laughs, then Eric laughs back, when he spots whipped cream in Jerry’s mustache.

And yeah, today has sucked. And technically it’s not even over yet— but at this point Eric thinks he can say:

He survived it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So. Won't get into it but this one came from a pretty personal place for me. I truly hope this read with sincerity and not sensationalism.
> 
> On a MUCH LIGHTER, fandom-y note! Credit to gateruner on tumblr for the idea that Stella is actually Danny's half-sister and she and Eric aren't biologically related to Eddie. Check out the original post at the link below for more info/evidence. But in any case I saw that post I guess a while ago by now, and it fit really well with my own headcanons about the Williams family dynamics. Namely that Stella is kind of a self-imposed black sheep, and that this in turn had a big influence on how Eric related to the rest of the family. (And that they totally lived together and grew up together... canonically there's only ~10 years between Danny and Eric, and factoring in Clara's relatively young age as well, the canon math really only works if Clara had Stella as a teenager and Stella had Eric as a teenager.)
> 
> gateruner.tumblr.com/post/171472372322/just-finished-watching-tonights-episode-and-i


	29. Ransom (Danny)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It’s the first ransom case they work, after Matty’s murder. They catch the guy in time. That doesn’t mean Danny’s okay.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> warning: vague mentions of suicide, but it's more one character worrying about another than anybody having actual thoughts

_Ransom_.

Just the word had made Steve’s insides tighten, his skin go cold.

Less than two weeks later and it was already happening: their first ransom case since Matty’s death.

_500k or your son dies._

That was this morning. And though Steve had sworn to himself he’d stay by Danny’s side throughout, the case had necessitated them to split up, only reuniting to finally arrest the kidnapper and get the child back.

It’s been less than five hours.

Danny looks like he’s aged ten years.

Steve’s actually pretty late to the party on this one; despite some impressive speeding, by the time he arrives, Duke already has the perp in cuffs and Ms. Kalama already has her son clutched tight against her chest.

Good. Because, Steve’s a professional; getting the kid back was obviously priority one. But Danny’s wellbeing? It wasn’t a very distant second.

He’d never tell Danny this, never burden him with it; but Steve dreams of Colombia, too. Of Danny wailing, _howling_. He dreams of his own fervent prayers that the remains in the barrel be nothing but bones; of the stench, and Danny’s stricken expression, demonstrating otherwise.

He dreams of the moment he saw for himself.

He dreams of the way Danny’s vomit splashed as it hit the concrete floor, soiling both their shoes, not that either of them cared. Of Danny’s weight as he sagged in Steve’s arms, an utterly broken man.

Two weeks.

That was two fucking weeks ago.

So really it’s no surprise that while the rest of the scene plays out around him, Danny’s motionless, his back to it all.

He’s beside the perp’s car. The back door is open and, even as Steve approaches, he only stares inside, as though worried that Alex Kalama’s still in there.

“Danny.”

And it’s not that Danny flinches; it’s just that his muscles are so ungodly rigid that even the controlled motion of his sideways glance seems strange. Not quite voluntary.

“It’s over, man.” Steve keeps his voice steady. “Come on, close the door.”

For a moment there’s no reaction. Then Danny steps back just enough to swing the door shut.

“Come on. Let’s get you outta here—”

And then something happens that Steve didn’t see coming, though he possibly should have:

Danny steps closer again.

Then he rears back, swings forward, and drives his fist straight through the window.

Steve sighs. Doesn’t let himself curse aloud.

Danny does, hissing and swearing as he folds around his bloodied hand; this seems to have shaken him loose from his catatonia, at least, though Steve hopes that wasn’t the motivation behind the punch.

Somehow pure anger is less threatening than the need to ground oneself in physical pain.

Regardless, Danny’s present enough now to turn towards Steve, shoulders rounded as his body instinctively shelters the part of it that hurts.

Steve rubs his forehead, and sighs again. “Danny.”

“Yeah?”

“I wish you hadn’t done that.”

He hopes for some snark in return, or even just a glare; but Danny gives him none of that. “Can you just patch me up, please?”

Steve leads Danny back to the truck with a hand on his shoulder; leaves him sitting on the bumper while he digs the first aid kit from beneath the front seat.

He returns, and begins. A lot of the damage is just small scrapes, welling with blood more than they’re actively bleeding. But there’s a few decent gashes too. Tiny glass fragments, so small that they’re hard to get with tweezers, peek from the wounds and stick to bare skin.

And to top it all off, two of Danny’s knuckles are the color of an eggplant.

Steve puts the tweezers aside, and flushes with saline to wash the smallest pieces away. Then he goes back to picking. “You’re lucky that was an old car,” he notes, conversationally. “You know it would’ve been worse if that window _didn’t_ break.”

“Wouldn’t be glass in me, if it hadn’t broken.”

“Been a harder blow to your knuckles, though.”

“Right. Thanks, Science Steve.”

“Prob’ly would’ve broken a few.”

“Yeah, well. Not sure I didn’t,” Danny admits, with a flick of his eyebrows.

“Yeah. You’re pretty purple, there, buddy.”

Danny wilts slightly, and Steve knows exactly what he’s thinking: a possibly-broken bone means he really should go for x-rays. Which is literally the last thing he wants to do right now.

“I’ll tape it,” Steve says, keeping his voice light. “We’ll see how it looks tomorrow.”

“’kay.”

“Almost done with the glass, anyway. You’re lucky it was safety glass—”

“Will you _please_ stop trying to look on the bright side?” Danny snarls, pulling back. “There is absolutely nothing good about this! There is absolutely nothing good about today! And don’t tell me there is, just ‘cause we got the kid back! Don’t try to make it sound like…”

He trails off.

“I wasn’t gonna,” Steve replies.

Danny sags fully now; his head hangs towards his knees, shoulders bobbing. A small shudder runs through him. Steve slows for a moment, shifting his attention; but nothing else happens. Danny’s not crying. He hasn’t cried since the plane ride home, at least not in front of Steve— and Steve gets the feeling he probably hasn’t cried by himself, either.

Not that Steve’s a bastion of proper coping mechanisms himself. But—

It doesn’t take a genius to know that Danny would have been better off in the long run if he’d just squeezed out a few tears, as opposed to putting his fist through a pane of glass.

Steve takes Danny’s hand back. Washes the rest of the cuts, bandages the ones that need it; then, as promised, he tapes the hand, buddying up the fingers that look worst off.

“Above your heart,” Steve coaxes. And guides Danny’s arm upwards until his injured hand is resting on the opposite shoulder. It looks like he’s taking a pledge.

First aid kit tidied away, Steve crouches, and squeezes Danny’s elbow. “Let’s get you home.”

Danny shakes his head. “Gonna drive for a while.”

“One-handed? You shouldn’t be driving at all.”

“Steve.” Danny raises his face, meets Steve’s eyes. “I need to.”

“Want me to ride along?” Steve forces a smile. “Limited-time offer, me takin’ shotgun.”

“No.” For a second it looks like he’s about to say more, but then he shakes his head again. “No.”

“Okay. Just— back by dark, please? And let me know, when you get home?”

A smile creeps slowly over Danny’s face. “_Back by dark_. You know I’m thirty-seven, right?”

“I know. And you know you’re my Danno.” Steve pushes to his feet, helps Danny stand too. “So I want you home by dark, and I want a text when you get there. Or you come to my place. Either works.”

Danny makes a noise that’s half-laugh, half-sigh. With his good hand he fumbles in his pocket; Steve sees him grab his keys, but he doesn’t draw them out. For a moment he’s just still.

Then he shakes himself and takes them out; they jingle quietly. “I don’t think I’m coming over tonight. But I will text you. And I will see you tomorrow, okay?”

“Is that a promise you’re making?”

“Yeah. I promise.”

“Okay,” Steve agrees, because what else can he do? Danny’s grieving. If he needs time alone Steve can’t begrudge him that; he’ll have to settle for the promise that he’ll see Danny tomorrow.

The unspoken promise that Danny won’t do anything rash tonight.

And maybe Danny can tell just how dark a thought has passed over Steve’s mind, because he forces another smile and bops Steve on the arm.

Then he walks away.

And Steve searches desperately, for something to say that might comfort him. Searches, until Danny’s car has already disappeared from view.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Not to much comfort in this one, but the next two are going to be very heavy on it ;)
> 
> Speaking of which, I'm about to wrap this up! Almost can't believe it. I've been playing with the idea of doing either a sequel to _Safely Rest_, with Steve spending time at the Williamses; or a prequel to it, focusing on Danny in the months that Steve was gone. Anybody want to register support for one above the other?


	30. Recovery (Steve)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “No shit you’re tired," Danny huffs. "You went full-out SEAL in the middle of a radiation spell.” Aka, season 8 Steve whump.

_He remembers some of it. _

_Not much, but some._

_Knife to the leg; knife to the flank;_

_The dizziness of fever, combined with the dizziness of a fist to the neck;_

_His shoulder, wrenching out of its socket;_

_Landing blows of his own. Enough, apparently, to win the day._

_Danny’s fingers brushing his scalp, anchoring him as he starts heaving again. Bringing up a meager glob of phlegm. _

_Danny murmuring. It sort of sounds like he’s crying. _

_“It’s okay, babe, you’ll feel better soon. You’ll feel better soon—”_

_And then he remembers nothing, until the familiar smell of hospital—_

Steve forces his eyes open.

Danny’s out cold, with one finger crooked through the bracelet at Steve’s wrist so his hand doesn’t fall away in his sleep. In Steve’s other arm, two separate IV’s.

There’s pain, behind the tramadol, which is always a strange sensation. Not there but still there. Not excruciating but somehow intolerable all the same.

He swallows back a whimper. Feels the bruising in his throat.

Danny shifts but doesn’t wake; Steve shakes his wrist, just enough to move Danny’s hand. Blue eyes peel open. There’s a cloudiness to them— exhaustion, anxiety— but still Danny smiles, as he takes in the scene and squeezes Steve’s hand.

“Hey. And don’t say _hey_ back. Your throat’s so fucking swollen they were talkin’ intubation when you first got in.”

Steve agrees. In lieu of speech, he brings up his free hand, paws at his neck with a grimace.

“Yeah, I’ll fuckin’ bet. Hang on.” Danny’s hand disappears as he lurches upright; shuffles over to the tray table at Steve’s other side and grabs a cup of what must be ice. He shoves it into Steve’s grasp. Then flops back into the chair while Steve gratefully pours a few chips into his mouth.

“So.”

The ice starts melting immediately, cooling the burn in his throat; Steve’s enjoying the feeling so much that he barely notices Danny’s speaking again. He blinks, looks up.

“So I know you’re not up for a conversation right now,” Danny continues, once he has Steve’s attention. “But honestly? That might be better. Because you can’t argue.”

Steve frowns. The sleepy-worried look has disappeared from Danny’s eyes, suddenly replaced by something undeniably— angry.

“Just listen. You need to tell me, when you need to tap out of a case like that. Pride like yours, in a job like yours? It could literally kill you. And quite frankly? It could kill me too. Or anyone on the team. No, I know you don’t wanna hear it. But you need to.”

Steve lets his eyes half-close, a moment. He should have known. Should have seen this coming. Doesn’t matter how happy Danny was to see him wake up: two minutes later and it’s time for the beatdown.

“Junior took one to the chest,” Danny tells him, almost calmly. “He’s fine. Vest blocked it. But, I really need you to think about that. A man under your command could have literally died, because you weren’t willing to take yourself off a mission.”

“Do you—” Steve begins. And almost sobs, from the pain that speech causes. “Do you think— it would have been— better—”

“With you not there at all? Uh, yes I do. I think maybe being one man down would have been safer than Junior being distracted because his beloved commander started _vomiting blood_ in the middle of takedown!”

Steve’s hand twitches. The cup jerks, and half the ice chips go spilling wetly across his lap.

_Oops_, he tries to say; instead he just shivers.

“Jesus _fuck_,” Danny grunts. He scoops the errant ice into his hands and tosses it in the trash; takes the cup with the rest of them out of Steve’s hand.

“Budge,” he orders. And Steve moves over, just far enough for him to perch on the edge of the bed.

“To be fair—” Steve whispers, “the blood— coulda been— from the throat punch.”

Danny’s eyes swim slightly, as he feeds Steve another ice chip. “Please stop talking,” he mutters. “This isn’t an argument. If you’re having a spell, you need to stay home. And if one comes on later, you need to _go_ home.”

“I didn’t—”

“Stop _talking_!” Danny roars. It’s sudden, and it’s loud enough it leaves him panting. “Jesus. Stop _talking_. And don’t lie to me. You were sick hours before we left the Palace. You wanna share the blame for that? Fine. We’ll share that blame. I thought you had a fever, but I let it slide. We’ll share that blame.”

“Danny—”

Danny just shakes his head. Two tears get loose, and streak in tandem down his face. “Let me paint the picture,” he growls, “since you were too fucking out of it to remember. Perp engaged you. You were off your game, and don’t take that personally, because _fucking anyone_ would be off their game with a fever _over 103_! You got stabbed. You threw up. Perp took advantage, and you got stabbed again. Then he punched you in the neck, took your shoulder out of the joint. You threw up, _again_. You’re on the ground, at this point. Now the knife’s at your fucking carotid, Junior’s down, I’ve got two guys on me, I lose visual on you, and the whole time I’m taking them down I’m thinking, _he’s gonna be dead. I’m gonna turn around, I’m finally gonna get to him, and he’s gonna be dead_.”

Grief and anger are coming off Danny like heat. Steve wants nothing so much as to comfort him— but even if he could speak, what the fuck would he say?

And, besides. _Besides_. He’s sick; maybe too sick to worry about Danny. The ice in his mouth is just making the heat of the fever feel worse everywhere else, and swallowing, even this scarce amount, is making his stomach turn. His throat pulses. The wounds in his leg and side feel numb, but tight.

“I won,” Steve whispers.

Danny laughs, ugly and sharp.

It’s the laugh that does it; it’s the lack of gentility, in a moment when he so desperately needs it, that finally brings tears to Steve’s eyes. He lets them go, silently.

“Don’t fucking cry,” Danny snaps, crushing the cup between his thumb and fingers. “It’s the last fucking thing you need right now.”

Steve shrugs. Danny scowls, leans forward and wipes a tear from Steve’s cheek with almost bruising force, and it’s not fair. Danny’s been crying. If Steve wants to cry too he should fucking be allowed to, for godsake; he’s earned that fucking right. He’s sick enough. He’s hurt enough.

But Danny seems to get that, eventually.

He sighs. His hand, still against Steve’s face, relaxes, and he strokes a little, not doing much in the way of actually drying the wetness. “You want s’m’more ice?”

Steve shakes his head.

“You wanna talk about anything?”

Steve shakes his head. Then, despite that, mumbles, “you okay?”

“Am _I_ okay?”

“Two— two guys on you?”

“I can hold my own. And so can Junior, by the way. I just— I just wanted to scare you a little.”

_It worked_, Steve doesn’t say. He just blinks, feels a few more tears shake free.

“_Steve_,” Danny murmurs, and moves just long enough to locate and grab some tissues. He hands them over so Steve can blow his nose. “Babe, you’re not up to this right now.”

“‘m tired.”

“No shit you’re tired. You went full-out SEAL in the middle of a radiation spell.”

Yeah. Yeah, he did.

“Least I know— I can—” Steve breathes, and Danny huffs.

“Personally I would rather you’d never found out.” Bright blue eyes scan him head to toe, as they pause and catch their breaths. “Why’d you get all goofy just now?” Danny asks, softly.

“Feel like shit.”

“You feel like shit plenty. Don’t usually cry about it.”

“Feel like— more shit— than usual,” Steve mutters, letting his chin tip slightly downwards. Which should be obvious, so he doesn’t know why Danny’s pressing him on it.

“Okay. That’s okay. How ‘bout you just try to sleep, huh?”

“Don’t wan’ sleep. I wanna go home.”

“Well, that’s not happening today,” Danny replies, dad-voice in full swing. It’s the gentility he wanted; yet it only makes him want to cry again. Because he can almost pretend he’s got a parent there with him—

And that’s such a _stupid_ thing to pretend.

He covers his face, swallows back more tears. Then someone’s warmth is against him: gentle, placing no pressure, but solid enough for him to cling to.

“It’s okay, babe,” Danny murmurs, hugging him with care. “You feel like shit. You can cry about that.”

“Told me not to.”

“Yeah, I shouldn’t’a said that. That’s— that’s just me bein’ a putz. Go ahead an’ cry, okay?” Danny bundles him closer, coaxing him gently to rest his head on Danny’s shoulder. “Go ahead. Go ahead an’ cry.”

And for a while Danny just— lets him. Steve lets himself, too. By some unspoken agreement they just hold on and let it happen, and it’s not a conscious plea for comfort so much as it is some physical, visceral need to react. Release.

He can’t remember the last time he cried just because he _hurt_.

Just, he’s been hurting, every day, for well over a year now.

The tears run out eventually; not too long after this, Steve begins to realize that he’s not the one supporting his own position. Danny’s hands, on his back and his neck, are the only reason he’s upright.

Very possibly he should lie back; instead he leans further forward, letting gravity help Danny’s cause.

Danny laughs, softly this time. “You with me?”

Steve just hums in reply, dopey with meds and catharsis.

“Okay. Hey, you should sleep now. I’ll hold your hand, okay, but you should lie down.”

Steve ignores him. Nudges his head against Danny’s shoulder and feels Danny’s stubby nails begin to scratch his scalp, precisely where his hair forms its whorl.

“Yeah,” Danny sighs. “Okay. In five minutes, I’m serious.”

Maybe Danny keeps track; maybe he doesn’t. Timing five minutes is definitely something Steve’s not concerned with— and maybe not quite capable of— at the moment, so he just waits until eventually Danny pulls away. Guides him backwards, to a prone position.

“It’s all good, Steve,” Danny soothes, and lays his hand against Steve’s check; Steve lists against Danny’s palm. “All good. You’re gonna be fine.”

“Okay.”

“Listen. Your doctor says two weeks recovery on that shoulder, minimum, if you want full use of your arm. Prob’ly take that long ‘til you can breathe right, anyway. Can you promise me— even if you can’t take it easy long-term— can you promise me, please, you’ll take the next two weeks to recover? _Please_.”

Steve nods.

“Well,” Danny huffs. “Small fucking miracles, huh? Thank you.” He sighs. “Anyway. ‘m finally buildin’ up some good sick time again, so. I could come, stay for a few days? When you’re released.”

He’s definitely beyond speech at this point, so Steve can only hope that his expression answers for him.

And it seems to. Danny smiles, strokes his cheek again, then finally pulls his hand away.

“Good. I will. Sleep now, babe, I mean it.”

And again, Steve does as Danny tells him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Guys I can't believe I'm actually going to finish this!!! Like... soon!!!!!
> 
> Thank you SO MUCH to everyone who's been reading along this whole time <3 <3 <3
> 
> I owe individual thanks for comments from the last chap but I'm posting in a bit of a rush tonight. Shall get there ASAP. In the meantime please know that I love you :)


	31. Embrace (multiple)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Steve’s amazing at giving hugs. Slowly but surely he’s learning to accept them, too. (Set after Grace's accident, but that's not _overly_ relevant.)

So, Steve’s a good hugger. Apparently. It’s not that he thought he was a bad one; he just never really thought about it at all.

It starts with Tani. She’s obviously having a shitty day; Steve’s instincts tell him not to ask why, but not to leave it alone, either. He could choose the generic, _are you okay_? But they’ve all taken some heavy emotional beatings over the last few months, and instead Steve just— hugs her. Pulls her aside and gives her a big, (hopefully) paternal embrace.

Shyly, Tani lets him. Thanks him after they’ve pulled apart, her voice so much softer than usual that he almost pulls her right back in.

At first it seems that nothing more will come of this. The next day Tani seems like her same old self, any trace of timidity long gone; so Steve doesn’t mention it. Then a few more days pass. But one evening, maybe a week or so later, Steve’s home making dinner when his phone goes off three times in quick succession. He pulls it out, finds a string of texts from Tani.

_Boss: strange request_

_Junes needs a hug. Find an excuse to give him one please?_

_Your hugs are LIFE-AFFIRMING_

Well. That’s not the way Steve would have thought to describe that himself, but it sounds pretty complimentary. Not that that’s his main takeaway.

Junior’s upset? And he didn’t even realize?

Luckily there’s nothing in the kitchen he can’t leave unattended at the moment; so Steve heads off to find Junior. It’s not hard. Half a minute later he comes across him in the laundry room, folding linens from the dryer. Steve leans in the doorway, waits for the man to look up.

When Junior does, he does so with a slightly perplexed expression; which makes sense, because Steve is not at all subtle in his observations. “Everything okay?” Junior prompts, with a small, bemused smile.

“Actually, I came over to ask you that,” Steve replies. He’d been trying to seem casual, with his cross-armed stance, but it’s starting to feel too severe. He uncrosses his arms.

“Yeah?”

“You just— seemed kind of down today.”

Junior still has a towel in his hands; now he goes back to folding it, drawing his eyes away. “I’m fine, commander.”

“Yeah?”

“I didn’t sleep so well last night; I just think I’ll turn in early tonight. Be fine by tomorrow.”

Steve fights the urge to cross his arms again, in thought. Looking back, Tani probably trusted him to come up with some careful, nuanced plan; instead he’d just barged in and gone straight to the point.

But that’s his relationship with Junior. They don’t keep secrets; they don’t use _strategies_, at least not on one another.

So, Steve just forges on. He doesn’t ask permission aloud, but he keeps his motions slow and clear, so Junior could object if he needed to.

He doesn’t.

In fact, the moment Steve’s arms close around him, Junior wilts, burying his face in the crook of Steve’s neck and clinging to Steve’s waist like it’s a life preserver. Breathing in slow, measured rhythm. The towel he never put down is now squashed between their bodies, warm and fresh-smelling and strangely reassuring.

Steve brings a hand up, cups the base of Junior’s skull. Thumbs gently at the nape of his neck, relieved when this doesn’t cross a line but only makes Junior nuzzle even closer.

He lets Junior pull away first. And it takes a little longer than Steve had expected before he does so, smiling sheepishly down at the now-wrinkled towel. “What was that for?”

It feels wrong to step away completely, so Steve puts a hand on Junior’s shoulder. “Was ‘cause you needed it. And because, when I was your age, I would never have asked for that in a million years. No matter _how_ much I needed it.”

“I did kind of need it,” Junior admits, smile widening. “Thanks, commander.”

“Also Tani told me to.”

Junior laughs.

*  
That weekend, like most weekends, Steve winds up at Danny’s house. The kids are over. As he arrives, Charlie is in the act of tugging Danny out to the backyard for some kind of t-ball thing, so Steve joins Grace at the kitchen table, where she’s tapping away at her laptop.

Only a month out of the hospital and she seems nearly back to normal. Still wearing a hat at all times (Steve doesn’t know what it looks like underneath, and of course he won’t ask) but beyond that, you almost wouldn’t know. The comfort it brings him is beyond words. Just to be able to sit with his niece, talk and laugh with her, and know that she’s truly going to be all right—

Steve smiles, around his glass of pilfered orange juice.

Grace isn’t up for much conversation at the moment— apparently this essay is due by midnight tomorrow— but it’s nice to be around her all the same. So he just drinks his juice. Dicks around on his phone, watches Charlie and Danny, and generally tries not to be a distraction.

That is, until Grace sighs for the third time in as many minutes. Out of the corner of his eye Steve watches her half-close her laptop, hesitate, open it again, then push it shut. The snapping sound betrays the force of her motion.

Steve tries not to act overly concerned, but he doesn’t pretend to ignore it. He sets his glass down, sits back. “Everything okay, Gracie?”

Grace nods. Then pushes her laptop back open, but doesn’t keep working. “Um.”

“What’s up?”

“Uncle Steve.” Grace doesn’t meet his eyes. “You’ve had a concussion before, right?”

“Yeah, I have. Couple of ‘em.”

“Did it take—” She sighs, again. “How long did it take, before you felt—?”

Steve puts his phone down, and pushes it and the juice to the side. He leans over the table, arms loosely crossed atop it. “Before I felt better?”

“Not better.” Grace frowns. “Just— normal. Like. I don’t feel bad. But I don’t feel— like myself, I guess?”

“Kind of foggy, right?”

“Foggy and just— it’s really hard to concentrate. Like, _really_ hard. Stuff that was easy, _isn’t_ anymore.”

“Like essays?” Steve guesses, with a smile.

Grace nods. “I know this isn’t flowing right. Like, I know it’s not organized right. But I can’t wrap my head around it. Even when I’m wide awake I feel like my brain could fall asleep at any second.”

“Your teachers are working with you, right?”

“Yeah. I could totally turn this in late, I just—” She sniffles, and Steve’s stomach drops as he realizes that his niece has tears in her eyes.

“Just what?” he prompts, quietly.

“I’m going to college in six months,” Grace replies. “If my classes are hard now, imagine how much harder they’ll be then! And I’ll be away— and I’m excited! I want to enjoy it! But what if I still feel like this? I don’t think I could handle it if I do.”

“Hey. Six months might not seem like much, but to your body? That’s a lot of time to heal. Hey,” he repeats, getting to his feet and rounding the table. “If you wanna know what I think, I think, you need to give yourself a break. And I think you need a hug. Okay?”

“Okay,” Grace whispers.

“C’mere.” And Steve guides her up and out of her chair, and wraps both arms around her shoulders. Grace relaxes, tipping her head against his chest.

“I promise you, it’s normal to be afraid, this time in your life. Seriously. And you’ve got an extra weight on your shoulders. But you’re gonna be fine. I promise.”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah.” He gives one last good squeeze before letting go; Grace pulls away, wiping her eyes but already looking a little more at ease.

“Thanks. You give really good hugs, did you know that?”

Steve tugs one sleeve up, makes a show of flexing his biceps. “No mystery why.”

Grace laughs. “Nice, Uncle Steve.”

“I know they’re nice. You don’t gotta tell me.”

She shakes her head. “You know that’s not what makes you good at hugging, though. You know that, right?”

And, yeah. He’s starting to realize that.

*

On Monday morning Danny reports that Grace turned in her essay on time and that, from his not-an-English-teacher viewpoint, it was pretty great.

That’s the good news. The bad news is they’re called on not one but two separate cases soon afterwards. Nice way to start the week.

Two separate cases means all hands on deck, which means Steve heads off to the crime scene with Danny, and Jerry, in tow. Not that Jerry minds field work.

Steve knows this because he mentions it three or four separate times, on the less than twenty-minute drive.

The house has already been cleared by some uniform officers. Without needing to worry about that aspect, Steve heads right in, not bothering to confirm that the others are following— or that they’re all right. Why wouldn’t they be?

So it’s a bit of a surprise, when Steve turns around to ask initial impressions—

And finds tears, rolling silently down Jerry’s face.

Oh, right. Because not everybody’s completely used to death. Because some people might find it upsetting, the body of a young woman crumpled beside her bed like she fell getting out of it, eyes still open, hand stretching out for her phone. For help that never came.

Some people might find themselves overwhelmed by the fact that a human being— who has peace lilies on her windowsill, who went to bed last night wearing an _I Love New York_ t-shirt— is dead now.

Some people might cry over something like that.

Steve lays a hand on Jerry’s arm; he startles, stiffens. “Go get some air, Jerry.”

“I’m fine—”

“I know you’re fine,” Steve murmurs. “Go get some air.”

Jerry gives in with no further protest; he nods, wipes his eyes, and shuffles from the room.

It’s less than five minutes before Steve meets him by the truck. Still it’s been enough time that all trace of the episode has been tidily cleaned away. Jerry snaps upright as Steve approaches. Shoves a laptop towards him, clearly eager to jump right back into the case— and Steve’s happy to let him.

In that moment, anyway.

Later, when the case has been solved, when they’re all back at the Palace, exhausted and sweaty and starving, Steve turns down Lou’s suggestion of dinner. Waves everyone else off, tells them to enjoy. He sure as hell wouldn’t mind food, and maybe a drink or two; but it hasn’t escaped his attention that Jerry went down to his office as soon as he could, and hasn’t come back up.

So Steve heads down. Pauses at Jerry’s closed door, and knocks firmly. “Jerry, it’s me,” he calls. “Can I come in?”

“Oh. Yeah.”

Steve pushes the door open and shuts it behind himself; inside the office, Jerry’s tucked up in one corner of his couch.

“How you feelin’?”

“Eh.”

“Eh?” Steve perches on a corner of Jerry’s desk, facing him but not forcing eye contact. “You wanna elaborate, or—?”

Jerry flashes a weak smile. “I think, more than anything, I’m— embarrassed?”

“Why?”

“Uh. I cried at the crime scene.”

“Dude, we’ve all cried at a crime scene.”

“That’s not true.”

“Well, I dunno if we _all_ have,” Steve assents. “But _I_ have.”

“Really?”

“Yeah. And, a lot less _demurely_ than you did, trust me.”

Jerry seems to think on this for a moment; then he sighs. “Can I ask you— the context?”

So Steve tells him about Eran, about finding the photos in the basement; it’s just the summary version, because neither of them needs to hear the whole story right now.

But Jerry seems unconvinced.

“So you were by yourself?”

“Yeah. But. Don’t worry, I still ended up cryin’ like a baby when I told Danny about it.”

“That sounds, like, extra awful, though,” Jerry says, quietly. “This was just regular awful.”

“Hey. Awful’s awful, Jer.”

“Yeah,” Jerry whispers; then he falls silent. In the pause that follows, Steve moves from the desk to sit beside Jerry on the couch.

“Just. Had this almost two years now,” Jerry muses, eventually, tapping the badge that hangs from his neck. “I should’ve been able to handle that.”

Steve reaches over, taps it too. “This means a lot. But what it doesn’t mean, is that you stop bein’ a person.” He tries to meet Jerry’s gaze, but the man is keeping his face tilted downwards. Still Steve can see that his eyes are wet.

“Hey,” Steve murmurs, and gets an arm around Jerry’s shoulders. “Somebody was hurt. They were scared, and then they died, and it doesn’t matter if somewhere out there, something worse happened. That’s bad enough. That is absolutely something to be upset about. Okay? C’mon. C’mere.”

Jerry laughs, the sound of it soft and damp, as Steve brings his other arm up and tugs Jerry sideways and into a big bear hug. “You’re okay,” he soothes. He can feel Jerry’s nose pressing into his shoulder, Jerry’s badge pressing into his chest. “It’s not bad that you care. And it’s not unusual, if once in a while you care so much you can’t keep that stiff lip. Okay?”

“Okay,” Jerry whispers.

“And I’m here. If you need anything, if I can do anything. Seriously.”

“Seriously?”

“Of course.”

“In that case—” Jerry shifts, and his arms tighten around Steve’s waist. “Please don’t let go yet?”

“Not until you do,” Steve promises, and shores up his grip as well.

*

And then there’s Danny.

Danny, his best friend; the best friend he’s _ever_ had, hands down.

Danny, whose daughter almost died six weeks ago.

Since Grace’s accident, Steve’s been pretty intentional, about looking after the guy; at least he’s tried to be. But it isn’t always easy, knowing how to help. Danny’s all over the place: some days he’s absolutely fragile; some days he’s downright belligerent. _Nasty_, even.

And he’s probably sleeping with Rachel again, so there’s that.

Spending time together (even more than usual) helps, but it doesn’t help enough. Drinking only makes his mood worse. And this hugging thing, that seems to work beautifully with everyone else in Steve’s life, seems a neutral thing at best.

Still he keeps it up. What else is there to do? In fact, even more than keeping it up, he searches actively for moments he could sneak a hug in, even if he wouldn’t usually. Danny needs extra affection right now, no denying it.

So when Danny spends the entire day snapping at everyone, then slams the door to his office and all but refuses to come out—

Steve waits until the others have gone home for the evening. Then he lets himself into Danny’s office, and settles calmly on the couch.

“Yo.”

“Excuse me?”

“Just wanted to see how you were doing,” Steve continues, undeterred.

“How I’m doing? How am I doing? I’m fine. I’m peachy.”

“Hey.” Steve makes his voice as soft as he can. “Danny, it’s me.”

“I _know it’s you_!” Danny replies, drawing the words out long and loud. “What does that _matter_?”

“Dunno. Just, you’re upset. Thought maybe you could tell me why.”

“I’m _upset_? Can’t a man be _upset_?”

The hug _is_ going to happen.

But for now Steve calls on another favorite Danny-wrangling skill, and stares coolly until Danny throws his hands up as though in benediction. He hauls to his feet, paces a moment before turning back around.

“I think Grace should take a gap year.”

“Wait a year before college,” Steve clarifies, still keeping his affect neutral. Danny nods.

“Accident that bad, you don’t just go live alone for the first time, six months later.”

“Well, I know at least one person who won’t go for that.”

“I don’t care. I’m still her father.”

“Did the doctors say anything, that makes you think this would be the right call?”

“No. No.” Danny rubs at his forehead with jittery fingers.

“Okay, and it’s March. So, less than two months out, she’s doing this well— you don’t think she’ll be ready come fall?”

Danny says nothing. He’s bouncing on the balls of his feet.

“C’mere.”

“C’mere, whadd’you mean, c’mere,” Danny mutters.

“I mean, come here,” Steve repeats, standing. He takes one step towards Danny, but lets his friend close the rest of the gap. Danny does. And when Steve wraps both arms around him, it feels like hugging a bundle of tension rods.

But slowly, slowly, that tension eases. Danny’s breathing fades from a roar to a hum, then to something so quiet Steve can’t hear it at all; the tremor in his shoulders lessens, too. In Steve’s arms Danny powers down like a switched-off motor.

“I gotcha, buddy,” Steve murmurs, as Danny scruffs weakly at the back of his shirt; they pass a long, quiet minute this way.

“You worked yourself up, huh,” Steve says, eventually.

Danny huffs. “I just. I worry.”

“Hey, believe me, buddy, we all know you worry.”

“Laugh it up,” Danny hisses, going newly rigid in Steve’s arms. “You know I worry but do you ever stop to think how fuckin’ b— how it feels like, to worry this much? ‘cause it don’t feel good.”

Steve opens his mouth; and loses his words. Rather than admit aloud what they both already know, he just starts rubbing between Danny’s shoulder blades.

“People act like I can turn my brain off,” Danny mutters. “Like it’s that easy.”

“I know. I shouldn’t tease.”

“You really fucking shouldn’t though.”

“I know,” Steve says again, resting his chin in Danny’s hair. “I’m sorry.”

Danny draws a long, shuddering breath; then slowly begins to untense again. He tucks closer, forehead warm against the bare skin of Steve’s neck. “I’m a mess, man,” he croaks. “Since it happened, I don’t feel like I’ve, like— y’know—”

“That’s a long time to be on alert.”

“Yeah,” Danny whispers.

And then he just— slumps. Drapes against Steve like he’d hit the ground, hard, if Steve stopped keeping him upright.

And Steve knows that feeling. Fuck, he knows it all too well: when you close your eyes, and put your weight on someone, and to you it’s the weight of the world but to them it’s just your body. To them it’s no big deal. Even though to you, it’s maybe saving an actual portion of your soul.

So he holds on. He’ll hold on as long as Danny likes.

For his part Danny doesn’t seem like he intends to break it off any time soon. Every shift, every sigh that Steve assumes will signal the end of the embrace— doesn’t. Danny just settles again, and goes still.

It occurs to Steve, eventually, that he’s not really hugging Danny anymore, so much as holding him.

Seems he’s good at holding people, too.

There’s a few more false starts before Danny finally pulls away; he kneads at his forehead, looking bleary.

Steve laughs. “You fall asleep?”

“Fuck you,” Danny grunts. “I’m comin’ over for dinner, I don’t wanna be alone.”

“Take one car?”

Danny nods; Steve knows they both hear the unspoken confirmation that Danny will be staying the night. He slings one arm around Danny’s shoulders. And though they just embraced for— god, it had to be at least five minutes— Danny leans into it, like he still hasn’t gotten enough.

“Are you okay?”

“No.” Then there’s an elbow to Steve’s ribcage. “But I’m better. So.”

“You’re welcome,” Steve replies. “Come on. Let’s go home.”

***

In all the chaos winter brings, Steve almost forgets his own birthday.

Seriously. Truthfully. He almost forgets.

When he switches his desk calendar to March, he stares idly at the rows of numbers and wonders why _that_ one is standing out for almost half a minute. Might groan a bit, when he realizes.

Even turning 40 hadn’t mattered as much as he’d thought it would. So, 42? There’s just— absurdly little point to it, especially with how things have been recently. If he makes it to 50, then he’ll really celebrate. But this year? Danny’s still in a not-so-great place, and Mary’s already said she can’t make it, and quite frankly?

Ever since Joe died, Steve hasn’t felt up for much anyway.

Okay, so maybe he hadn’t forgotten his birthday so much as repressed it.

When the day itself comes, there’s not even a case to distract him. They all just linger in their respective offices, catching up on paperwork, though Steve does a lot less paperwork and a lot more, well, moping.

It’s not that he feels worse than usual. Just, he’s supposed to feel _better_ than usual, so the fact that he doesn’t…

He’s not even pretending to work by the time Danny knocks on his door.

“Yo,” his friend calls, the moment he’s poked his head in. “Cake.”

Steve feels himself smile a little at this. Not just because he could use some junk food— though he could— but because it reminds him of another birthday. A much younger birthday. Danny, Chin, and Kono still thought that maybe they could surprise him; it hadn’t (really) worked but it had touched him nevertheless.

God, that was such a long time ago.

Steve gets heavily to his feet, trails Danny out to the bullpen.

Lou’s holding the cake, just a handful of lit candles atop it; everybody else is gathered loosely around him, smiling. Steve smiles back, waits for the singing.

But that’s not what comes next. Instead Danny nods to Jerry, who taps out a sequence on the tabletop—

And the view-screen behind them flickers to life.

The screen is divided, showing four separate video feeds; and five extra voices join in, as the singing now begins.

Joanie is bouncing in Mary’s lap. Grace is accompanied by the chatter of a high school cafeteria. Chin and Kono, though likely states apart, appear on the screen side-by-side, just as they should be.

_Overwhelming_ is an understatement. And when the songs ends, Danny actually has to tug him over to the cake and whisper a helpful reminder about blowing out the candles.

He does. The effort, though tiny, leaves him breathless.

“Um.” Now he’s laughing; the smell of candles is pleasantly familiar, but the smoke is making his eyes water. “Hi. Hello. Wow. Gracie, you’re not cutting class, are you?”

“This is my lunch,” Grace replies, with a chuckle. “’swhy we did it now.”

“Oh. Okay. Hi, everybody.”

There’s a small chorus of greetings from the view-screen; back in the bullpen, Lou’s starting to divvy up the cake.

It’s lovely. Beyond lovely. But it’s maybe just a little too lovely, if that’s possible, and somehow Steve feels vulnerable in his joy; he struggles not to fold around his belly, protect himself. Holy shit, he needs a hug. But for all he’s been giving them, he’s still not sure how to ask—

But his team, perhaps, reads his mind. It wouldn’t be the first time.

Tani starts it off, Jerry joining an instant later. Steve tries to return both hugs at once, and ends up with one arm around each of them, and his face in Jerry’s shoulder. They’re jostled, as others join in. From the direction of Junior’s laughter he can tell the man has squeezed in behind Tani; he’s sure Adam and Lou have fit themselves somewhere as well. On screen, Mary’s giggling with Joanie. The others are silent, but he can feel them smiling as they look on.

And then, there’s a hand, rubbing warmly between his shoulders. And Steve doesn’t need to look back to know that it’s Danny, letting the rest of the team do the bulk of the actual embracing but making his presence known nevertheless.

Steve laughs again, stronger now. What had felt overwhelming is now the kind of organized chaos he’s come to associate with his team (at least on social occasions), and it’s warm, and safe, and familiar.

He sinks deeper. Jerry’s collar may or may not be getting a little damp right now, but if Jerry can tell, Steve knows he’d never mention it.

Somebody ruffles his hair. Somebody pats his hand where it rests on Tani’s back. Then they all pull away, until there’s only one person left touching him.

Danny takes his hand from Steve’s back; immediately folds his arm through Steve’s so that their elbows tuck together. He glances up. Jostles Steve slightly as he catches his eye.

“You good?”

“Yeah, I’m good,” Steve laughs, running his free hand under his nose. “I’m really good.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Y'all. Y'all. I can't believe it. I can't believe I finished this. I can't believe it took me so damn long to finish. I never in a million years thought this would be what I worked on primarily for like eight months. What the heck, who _does_ that? Is there an award out there for most overdue prompt challenge? Still, despite my lateness I'm really happy with this collection. Some of this was cleaned up old snippets but some was really inspired directly by these prompts.
> 
> (Um. I'm kind of embarrassed to ask but... does anyone want to tell me which their favorite was? Not to sound egotistical but I'd genuinely love to know.)
> 
> Anyway, THANK YOU SO MUCH for everyone who read and left such lovely comments on my lovely monster <3


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